T/1E S 
S/1A] 


AND O 



DENNIS H. STOVALL 




Class 

Book 




COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 

















The Spell of the 
Shang Kambu 

AND OTHER STORIES 


By Dennis H. Stovall 


Illustrations by J. H. Shonkwtiltr 



CINCINNATI 

THE STANDARD PUBLISHING COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT, 1921 

THE STANDARD PUBLISHING COMPANY 



DEC -7 '21 



©GLA653037 


To 

MCY BOYS 


Whose. Best Chum 
I Want to 
Be 



CONTENTS 

The Spell of the “Shang Kambu” 7 

The Spring on Blistered Bock 71 

The Gold from Pine Ridge 110 

Skookum and the Blizzard 129 

The Melting of Old Skeezooks 139 

The Buckskin Coat 153 

Switchback Jude 207 

Chief Five Crows of the Cayuses 221 

A Matter of Honor 233 

Old Sprangle Paw 247 


5 



THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG 
KAMBU” 

CHAPTER ONE. 

H EY, Bush!” sang Glen Morton, in 
cheery salutation, when the two 
chums met on the street, “I’ve good 
news.” 

‘ 6 Good news, eh?” Bush Adams an- 
swered. “Sure! I know what it is: 
School begins in exactly ten days from 
date. Which means more fun wrestling 
with geometry, square roots, physics, 
civil government — ” 

“ Break it off! Quit and begin over!” 
Glen interjected, “or 111 shy a brick at 
you! School will begin all right — and 
soon enough to suit me; but that isn't 
particularly good news. Anyhow, it isn't 
the news I wanted to tell you.” 

“Then tell me the good news you 
wanted to tell me,” begged Bush. 

7 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU” 


‘ ‘ Major Willard has returned!” 

“You don’t mean it!” Bush Adams 
manifested a quick and genuine interest. 
“When did he get in?” 

“Last night’s train. I met him early 
this morning. Said he wanted to meet 
you and me right away. Has some won- 
derful discovery he intends to let us in 
on. Something he picked up in Tibet, or 
Timbuctoo, or some other of those for- 
eign ports.” 

“Say, let’s go down at once. I’ve 
nothing particular in the way just now.” 
Bush took his chum by the arm and 
started; but it required little urging. 

The return home of Major Willard, re- 
tired soldier, scientist, traveler, was ever 
an event of importance in the little West- 
ern town; but especially was his home- 
coming a big event for Bush and Glen. 
From as far back as they could remember, 
the two boys had shared the wonders and 
listened to the marvelous tales of adven- 
ture the major had to tell. And they had 
gazed with wide-open eyes, and often with 
bated breath, at the strange creatures, 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


relics and rich ornaments the traveler 
gathered from all corners of the globe. 

This September morning, when the 
two chums entered the little, two-room 
building which set back a distance from 
the street, and which served as a com- 
bined library and laboratory for the 
traveler-scientist, they found the major 
sitting at ease in a big chair, his hands 
idly folded, and his eyes half closed, as if 
in meditative thought. The boys halted 
abruptly on the threshold, and started to 
turn back quietly, not wishing to disturb 
the thinker. 

But Major Willard, hearing the foot- 
steps at his door, raised his head and 
looked around. His deep-lined features 
brightened in quick recognition. “Come 
in, my lads — come right in!” he heartily 
invited. He half rose from his chair, and 
grasped the hands of the youthful callers 
in cheerful greeting. “Take seats! Take 
seats! I have something I want to show 
you, and tell you about.” 

Spread on a stand at the major’s right 
hand were a number of sheets of faded 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU 1 


and much- worn manuscript. Near the 
manuscript was a vial of green-colored 
liquid. Sitting down again, the major 
reached over and gathered up the sheets 
of manuscript in one hand, and with the 
other lifted the vial of green-colored 
liquid. “As you boys know,” he ex- 
plained as a beginning, “I have been away 
for over two years, and in that time have 
done considerable traveling, and much 
research work. On account of the war, 
and of conditions that grew out of the 
war, I was not able to go into the Holy 
Land and make the investigations in Bible 
topography or Scriptural study that I in- 
tended. But I did go to Tibet, and spent 
a year and longer in Lhassa, the capital. 
Lhassa is a city of mystery and of hidden 
wonders in what the world first accepted 
as the ‘ black art,’ or the evolution of 
chemistry. ’ ’ 

The veteran traveler and scientist 
leaned back in his easy chair and poised 
the vial of green-colored liquid before his 
keen, critical eyes. The two callers lis- 
tened eagerly for the coming revelation. 

10 



The veteran traveler and scientist leaned back in his easy chair and 
poised the vial of green-colored liquid before his keen, critical eyes 


< 


11 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


“While in the close-looked, jealously 
guarded city of Lhassa, I came upon 
something, or was led into a series of tests 
and experiments by which I evolved 
what I believe to be one of the world’s 
most marvelous mysteries.” The major 
shook the vial, and the boys noted that 
the liquid it contained passed through 
a rapid succession of shades, tints and 
colors. “This mystery has puzzled scien- 
tists and chemists for a long time. Pos- 
sibly I should better say it has puzzled 
those men who have followed a particular 
line of study and research.” 

The boys were getting anxiously un- 
easy. They wanted the major to get at 
once into a revelation of the “mystery.” 
What they desired was more definite in- 
formation, and less abstract introduction. 
“What is this mystery?” Glen asked 
bluntly. 

Major Willard looked up and smiled. 
After a silence, he answered: “It is the 
‘Shang Kambu.’ ” 

Sometimes the old traveler had his fun 
by playing a practical joke. He seemed to 
12 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


be having so much fun out of this that the 
callers became suspicious. Evidently he 
divined their fears, for his features 
sobered, and he hastened to assure: “I’m 
not joking this time. I really have made 
a wonderful discovery, and I have my 
reason for wishing to disclose it to you 
boys — these reasons being mainly in the 
fact that I need your help in demonstrat- 
ing, or verifying, the worth and the vir- 
tue of the discovery.” 

The major was holding the vial near 
his eyes again. “It is possible, through 
the medium of this discovery, for one to 
go back and back, through the subcon- 
scious mind, into the dim and distant past. 
By swallowing a few drops of this liquid, 
the subject enters a condition of seeming 
unconsciousness — ” 

“Then, it is a new method of hypno- 
tism, or mesmerism?” guessed Bush. 

“No, it is not hypnotism, mesmerism, 
or any other ‘ism,’ ” the major denied 
emphatically. “I hope you boys may 
understand at the start that the matters 
I am about to reveal to you are of a 

13 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


purely scientific nature. To get on the 
trail of this secret, I spent many weeks 
— yes, several months — in studying the 
Pitikas, or the ‘sacred books’ of the Dalai 
Llamas, in Lhassa. To accomplish this, I 
had first to win the confidence of the 
Grand Llama. I had first to prove to 
him that I was a profound student, one 
who had a genuine and sincere purpose, 
rather than a mere curiosity. Fortu- 
nately, I knew much of the Sanskrit, and 
my ability to read the books intelligently, 
as well as the proof I could give of my 
acquaintance with ancient history, as- 
sured the Llamas, and I was allowed to 
proceed.” 

Major Willard laid the vial on the 
table, and the boys noted that even this 
slight agitation caused its contents to 
change from one bright color to another, 
settling finally into that peculiar shade of 
green. “My hobby has been the study of 
chemistry, and the ancient Llamas were 
remarkable chemists. They discovered, 
or evolved, many of the formulas now em- 
ployed in our laboratories. But chem- 

14 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU” 


istry, in ancient times, was a 'black art.’ 
It had to be practiced secretly. For that 
reason a great number of the experiments 
and tests, or the formulas developed, were 
lost. By a fortunate circumstance, a 
goodly number of the formulas were set 
down in the so-called 'sacred books’ of 
the Pitikas. It was these that I wanted 
' — and was determined to get.” 

Once more the deep-lined features of 
the traveler broke into a smile. "I got 
some of them,” he informed in a tone of 
modest triumph, "even though the 
Llamas, with jealous oversight, would not 
allow me to copy a single word from the 
books. Everything I took from the Piti- 
kas I carried away in my memory. As 
the names of solutions and chemicals 
known and employed in ancient times 
were vastly different from analogous 
drugs and solutions of to-day, you may 
guess I had some difficulty deriving any- 
thing of a tangible nature from those 
musty volumes. Yet I did get this — the 
‘Shang Kambu’ — so known and named 
by the ancient chemists.” 

2 15 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


Major Willard raised the vial from 
the table with a brighter gleam of triumph 
twinkling in his eyes. 

Keenly interesting as was all this, 
both Glen and Bush were at a loss to 
understand the meaning and the purpose 
of the revelation. Indeed, they as yet 
knew little of the real value, or nature, 
of the “Shang Kambu.” Moreover, they 
could not guess the part they were to play 
in what the major had termed the “ dem- 
onstrating or verifying of the discovery/ ’ 
But they exchanged quick, hopeful 
glances when the major remarked casu- 
ally: “I am glad you boys have come in 
this morning, for I want you to get more 
out of your call than merely to listen to 
my tales/ * 

Could it be possible the aged scientist 
intended for them to “ swallow a few 
drops” of the mysterious liquid, and be 
taken back and back in their “subcon- 
scious minds to the dim and distant 
past”*? They were soon to know. 

“Certain as I am of the effectiveness, 
as well as the virtue, of the ‘Shang 
16 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


Kambu,’ ” spoke the major, “I am yet to 
see it actually demonstrated. I can not 
do this myself. I must have the help of 
another. So I want one of you to take 
some of this liquid. I promise — yes, I ac- 
tually know by repeated tests I made, 
first upon animals, then with a native 
youth in Tibet — that not the least physical 
injury will result. The ‘Shang Kambu’ 
induces sleep, quite different from that 
brought on by ether or other anesthetics. 
In its passing it causes no headache, 
nausea or dizziness. The subject dreams, 
and it is the dream itself, through the sub- 
conscious mind, that reveals a picture of 
the past. It is, in truth, as if the subject 
actually lived, or had a part in some ac- 
tivity, the date or time of this depending 
upon the amount of liquid taken.” 

Again a glance of eager anticipation 
passed between the chums. Both had all 
manner of faith in Major Willard, and 
either of them would have swallowed the 
whole bottle of “Shang Kambu” at a mere 
word from him. They were plainly dis- 
appointed when he added, in a tone of 

17 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


unnecessary precaution: “Before entering 
this experiment, I would rather you boys 
think it over. Anxious as I am to see it 
practically demonstrated, there is plenty 
of time. Talk it over just between your- 
selves, or with your parents, if you will. 
But keep in mind that it is a secret. I 
have no desire to make money out of 
it, but wish to place it in the hands of 
brother scientists, that it may be made 
of practical value in research work.” 

Major Willard turned to other sub- 
jects then, and kept the youthful callers 
interested with other tales of his exten- 
sive travels. Yet it must be said that, 
interesting as were these stories, the eyes 
of Glen and Bush turned time and again 
to the vial of pale-green liquid. 

The mysterious “Shang Kambu” was 
the first thing the two talked about when 
their visit ended and they were out on 
the street. “That Pitikas and Grand 
Llama stuff has me going strong!” Bush 
declared. 

“Same here!” Glen added. “I didn’t 
like to rush matters, for I know it’s not 
18 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


an easy matter to hurry the major. Just 
the same, I would gladly have taken a 
few drops of that back-to-the-ancients 
liquid, just to revel in a dream of bygone 
ages.” 

“That’s the way I felt about it,” Bush 
confessed. “It would be a lot easier, and 
much more interesting, than a lesson in 
ancient history. But I suppose it is just 
as well that we wait awhile. Evidently 
the major has many other things on hand 
just now, and wants plenty of time to 
work this thing out properly.” 

“Yes, he will be busy for several 
days,” Glen informed knowingly. “He 
told me this morning he expected to have 
a call — a sort of secret conference, in fact 
— with a couple of Government agents 
this morning. This may be in connection 
with the ‘Shang Kambu.’ He has an ap- 
pointment with them at his office — Hello! 
Here they are now!” 

Just then a motor-car, bringing two 
dust-covered travelers, rolled up swiftly 
and came to a halt at the curbing. The 
man at the wheel pulled off a gauntlet, 

19 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


and, raising his goggles, glanced toward 
the youths on the walk. “Is Major Wil- 
lard’s office near here?” he inquired. 

“Right here, sir,” Glen answered, in- 
dicating the little building in the shade of 
the poplars. “The major is in his library 
now.” 

“Thanks!” the traveler responded. 
In a moment the two were out of the car, 
and, after shaking some of the road dust 
from their khaki uniforms, hurried 
through the gate and down the walk. 

“They must be the Government agents 
Major Willard is expecting,” Glen said. 
Bush Adams watched the visitors curi- 
ously. His gaze was directed especially 
to the smaller of the two. “I’ve seen that 
dark-skinned gent before,” he remarked 
in a low voice. “He wore a khaki suit 
then — but not a uniform. I can’t place 
him just now — but I’m wondering what 
sort of business he would have with the 
major.” 

Bush and Glen remained for awhile 
near the gate, considering how they could 
best employ the remainder of the day. 

20 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


They were surprised at seeing the late 
callers emerge from the office of Major 
Willard within five minutes — and with the 
strangers came the major himself. In 
that brief time the visitors had made 
known their business, impressed its ur- 
gency upon the scientist, got him into his 
hat and traveling-coat, and induced him 
to come along. Evidently they were in a 
hurry to get somewhere, for they walked 
with rapid strides. The smaller one, who 
took the lead, would not give the staring 
Bush as much as a single glance. 

“I am called away unexpectedly, and 
must make a trip that will keep me away 
from home several days,” Major Willard 
explained to the pair of wondering youths 
on the walk. “I wish you would put my 
office in order for me, please. Here is 
the key. Make such use of my books, or 
of my laboratory equipment, as you wish 
being careful to lock the door each time 
on leaving.” 

The big brass key was thrust into 
Glen’s hand, and, before either he or Bush 
could ask a question, the travel-stained 
21 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


car boomed out of town, carrying the 
khaki-clad strangers and the old scientist. 

“This is the first time I ever knew 
Major Willard to move as if he were ac- 
tually in a hurry/’ Bush remarked. “I 
hope he knows what he’s doing — ” 

“Those two gents in uniform evidently 
did some fast talking in order to hurry 
him off like this,” Glen smiled. Then he 
flipped up the big brass key. “Well, we 
will obey orders and put his office in 
order.” 

As the pair started down the gravel 
walk toward the little building, Bush 
offered the query: “Do you s’pose the 
major rushed away and left that bottle 
of ‘Shang Kambu’ stuff on the table*?” 

“Not likely,” Glen answered in a tone 
of doubt. “My guess is that it was the 
‘Shang Kambu’ stuff, or something con- 
nected with it, those uniformed gents 
wanted to see.” 


22 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG K AMBIT 


CHAPTER TWO. 

V ERY shortly the two boys entered 
the library of Major Willard. There 
was considerable disorder of books and 
papers, but no more than they had previ- 
ously observed. In the laboratory a num- 
ber of beakers and test-tubes, giving evi- 
dence of late use, were on the bench. 
But these, too, no doubt had been taken 
from the shelves early that morning or 
the evening before. 

But when Glen and Bush turned to 
the little stand near the window, they 
gave their first exclamation of surprise. 
The plentiful folds of the stand-cover, 
which was itself a piece of rare linen, 
hand-embroidered, which the aged traveler 
brought from Ireland, had been hastily 
turned back, with the evident purpose of 
concealing something. Glen lifted a cor- 
ner of the cover, and peered under it. 

23 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


“Here they are, Bush — both of ’em!” he 
remarked. 

When the cloth was raised, the faded 
manuscript and the vial of pale-green 
liquid were revealed. 

“It’s a bit queer the major should have 
left this stuff here,” Bush observed curi- 
ously, as he picked up the vial and ex- 
amined it meticulously. 

“He had no chance to put it away be- 
fore the callers entered, and they rushed 
him away without giving him the oppor- 
tunity,” answered Glen. “He probably 
thought of it as he left, and depended on 
our taking care of it for him.” 

The interest of the boys in the vial 
and its mysterious content was more than 
mere curiosity. The major had revealed 
enough of its nature to keenly whet their 
desire to know more. The fingers of Bush 
trembled a little as he held the flask in 
the sunlight. He shook it, ever so lightly, 
and the magic fluid began at once to pass 
through a variety of changing tints and 
colors — from pale green to bright ver- 
milion, then to purple, and from this to 

24 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


lavender, returning finally to its normal 
shade of green when it quieted. 

“I wonder what it smells like — or if 
it has any odor at all,” quizzed Bush, as 
he found the courage to carefully pull the 
glass stopper. 

He had no need of putting the vial to 
his nose. As soon as the stopper was 
pulled, there came a pungent, spicy smell 
that quickly permeated every part of the 
laboratory. 

“Not at all bad,” mused Bush, smiling. 
“It has the smell of peppermint, winter- 
green and cloves, all combined. They say 
that most things taste as they smell, and, 
if that is so, this stuff ought to have a 
familiar savor — ” He raised the open 
vial, and touched it with the tip of his 
tongue. 

“Careful, Bush — careful!” Glen cau- 
tioned. “That stuff may be mighty 
strong. Just a drop of it may put you to 
sleep for a long time.” 

Bush Adams had no other intention 
than to be careful — extremely careful. 
But sometimes unexpected things happen 

25 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


even to the most careful. Thus did it 
happen that, when Bush raised that open 
vial to his tongue, a stack of books which 
Major Willard had left in a disordered 
pile fell to the floor with a crash. Bush, 
startled by the racket, jerked the vial too 
quickly, and an unknown quantity of the 
liquid — more than a drop, he knew — went 
down his throat! 

Sputtering, terrified, Bush lowered the 
bottle and replaced the stopper, setting 
the vial on the table. 

“Did you get any of it, Bush? Tell 
me — did you swallow some of the stuff ?” 
Glen asked in an excited voice, as he 
jerked at his companion’s arm. 

“Yes— I did, Glen! I did!” Bush an- 
swered, leaning heavily against the table, 
and trembling, more from fear of conse- 
quences than from any effect of the mys- 
terious liquid. 

For a moment the two boys stood look- 
ing at each other, uncertain what to do. 
Their faces turned pale. Bush finally 
smiled. “Don’t be scared on my ac- 
count,” he assured. “I’m all right. We 
26 



Sputtering and terrified, Bush lowered the "bottle, replaced the 
stopper, setting the vial on the table 


2Z 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


know the stuff can’t do me any harm. 
The major told us that. But I must say, 
Glen, I do begin already to feel a bit 
queer. It wasn’t bad — that stuff — it’s 
taste, I mean. Much like water with all 
manner of spices in it — only more sharp 
and pungent. And it’s making me sleepy 
sure enough — sleepy. Take hold of me, 
Glen — I’m getting unsteady. Hold me 
quick — ” Bush was tottering on his feet, 
and grasping the table as if to keep from 
falling. 

Glen took him by the arm and guided 
him toward the big chair. He was filled 
with anxiety and grave uncertainty, in 
spite of Major Willard’s absolute assur- 
ance that no physical harm would result 
from taking a portion of the mysterious 
“Shang Kambu.” But Glen had no idea 
how much of it his companion swallowed, 
and it was this uncertainty that made him 
fearful. Glen’s fears increased when 
Bush sank limp and helpless into the big 
chair. He was exactly like one who had 
been suddenly stricken with a deep slum- 
ber. His eyes closed, his hands rested on 
28 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


the arms of the chair, his head lay at ease 
on the cushioned back. 

“Bush — oh, Bush! Wake up! Wake 
up!” Glen called and shouted and shook 
his companion; but Bush went deeper and 
deeper into slumber with every passing 
second. “Wake up, Bush! Don’t go to 
sleep!” Glen yelled again, close into the 
ear of his chum. 

But Bush did not wake up. In truth, 
Bush, in his last conscious moments, be- 
fore the “Shang Kambu” gripped him in 
its anesthetizing influence, did his utmost 
to keep awake. But he could not keep his 
eyes open, nor drive off the feeling of 
extreme drowsiness that seemed to take 
him in its soothing, overpowering em- 
brace. Even after he had sunk into the 
easy chair, he could hear his companion 
shouting and calling his name; but it was 
like some feeble, far-away voice that he 
tried in vain to answer. Then the rose- 
colored walls of the major’s office, the 
brass chandelier, the curtains at the broad 
window — and Glen — all faded away as 
Bush seemed to be carried out into space, 

29 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


where all manner of colors and tints and 
shades flashed and floated. 

It was as if he came out of this with a 
start. He heard the loud shouting and 
the heavy trampling of many feet, of 
cushioned feet on hard ground. And Bush 
found himself among a vast assemblage 
of men who were dressed in the skins of 
wild beasts, and who were armed with the 
rude weapons of ancient warfare. These 
men were stockily built, knotty-muscled, 
swarthy, thick-necked, with long, straight 
hair and close-set, narrow eyes. 

It was an immense room in which these 
warriors were assembled. A great cavern 
it was, cut from the solid rock, with walls 
of stone, and a natural roof, or ceiling, 
of stone. There were numerous oblong 
openings on one side and a broad door 
admitted light. 

The big chief was in command. He 
was far bigger, more powerful, more fierce 
in his looks than any of his fellows. At a 
sign from him, the warriors formed in 
grotesque battle array. Bush was one of 
the motley company. He trembled when 

30 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


the chief came toward him and beckoned 
a hairy hand. Bush followed out through 
the open door to the edge of a high cliff. 
From this eminence there was afforded 
a magnificent survey of the wide, green 
valley below. Above this valley lifted the 
bluffs, sheer, but cut with benches and 
shelves. Beyond the valley spread desert 
country, barren and arid. The valley and 
the lower bluff benches were watered 
from irrigating-ditches that ribboned the 
bluffs. Up here, on a higher shelf, broader 
than any of the shelves beneath, were 
rows of stone-hewn buildings, most of 
them squatty of structure, with here and 
there a taller one rising like a watch 
tower. Bush saw more than the green 
valley and the cliffs, more than the vast, 
arid desert as he followed the pointing 
hand of the chief and looked below. There 
was an army down there, in camp near 
the base of the bluff — or on the farther 
bank of the stream, not far from the bluff. 
There appeared to be a vast horde of men 
in this army, for the cone-shaped teepees 
fairly dotted the plain. 

3 81 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


“They have come again — our enemies! 
The men of copper skin!” spoke the chief 
in a peculiar guttural tongue. “They 
have come to destroy us — as they have 
come before — and as they will keep com- 
ing. They will make no peace ! They are 
our eternal, never-tiring enemies! Al- 
ready they have routed our toilers from 
the fields. Our copper-workers have been 
driven from the mines. Our people have 
sought the safety of the cliffs. We must 
drive them back! Drive them back to the 
land beyond the desert, whence they 
came!” 

Courage, determination, brute strength 
and purpose were in the booming voice 
and the gestures of the chief. “You will 
help me, my brave comrade!” he told 
Bush. “From this hour I place you in 
second command. We must plan our 
order — and strike at once, with all our 
might and power!” 

Bush proposed a division of their 
forces, one division to descend the cliffs 
at some convenient point out of view of 
the enemy, this division to attack the in- 
32 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


vaders from the rear, and thus cut off 
retreat, while the other division engaged 
them from the front. 

This plan met the chief’s approval. 
The two leaders returned to the assembly- 
room, and the division was made. Bush 
led his horde of fighters through a secret 
door, where the movement could not be 
observed by the enemy. Then, silently, 
the cliff warriors crept in ragged double 
file along the base of the upper shelf. 
They were armed with spiked clubs, 
slings and spears. 

The line halted when it came to the 
end of a long, narrow crevasse. Then, 
after a brief reconnoiter, they clambered 
in barefooted silence up this narrow slit, 
finally reaching the mouth of a tunnel 
that opened into the face of the moun- 
tain. Entering this black tunnel, the 
warriors crawled along through the damp, 
dark passage till there came a peep of 
light ahead. Along the bluff, up the cre- 
vasse and through the tunnel Bush had 
led the long line. And he was the first 
to emerge from the end of the tunnel. 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


Just below was the smooth, sandy 
beach of a river. The warriors came out 
of the tunnel and assembled on the river- 
beach, where Bush instructed them by 
low-spoken words and signs. A short 
distance downstream the river made a 
sharp bend, curving round the base of 
the high bluff. From the beach there 
was given a narrow glimpse of the green 
valley. At the border of that green valley 
the enemy had its camp. 

Bush ordered two of his swiftest run- 
ners to return over the route they had 
come to inform the chief that one division 
had reached the valley in safety and was 
ready for the attack. Meanwhile, the 
company, with Bush leading, waded the 
shallow river. Reaching the other shore, 
the barefooted warriors resumed their 
silent march, making a wide detour 
through the concealing growth to reach 
the valley unobserved. 

Finally all dropped to hands and knees, 
crawling like silent, determined beasts 
through the growth. There was a look 
of fierce determination in the gleaming 

34 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBLT 


eyes of the cliff fighters as they made 
ready to strike. Creeping on, like silent, 
stealthy beasts, they came out to. the edge 
of the valley. Peering through the in- 
terlaced boughs of bushes and trees that 
had screened their silent approach, the 
warriors looked down upon the enemy *s 
camp — scarcely more than a spear ’s-throw 
below. 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


CHAPTER THREE. 

S CREENED by the growth of sage and 
juniper that bordered the vale, the 
cliff warriors waited till a smoke cloud, 
like a thin, blue veil, rose and spread 
above the upper shelf of the bluff. This 
was the signal that the chief and his men 
were ready. 

Then all rose as one man, rushing like 
maddened beasts upon the enemy camp. 
The trampling of thousands of feet on the 
dry earth was like muffled thunder. The 
copper-skinned savages were taken by 
surprise. Still, there was no confusion — 
no retreat. The chiefs brought quick 
order, and held their horde of braves to 
face the foe. 

Followed a hand-to-hand combat; a 
bedlam of yells, shouts, cries; the wild 
clatter of spear against shield, of tram- 
pling feet. Teepees were overturned, 

36 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


camp stuff scattered. Ponies, released 
from their tethers, went squealing across 
the plain, fleeing in wild terror from the 
scene of carnage. 

Back and forth fought the copper- 
colored savages and the squatty warriors 
from the cliffs. It was a battle royal, even 
though barbarous. It was a contest for 
supremacy between the knotty-muscled 
men of the cliffs and the wiry, sinewy, 
fleet-footed savages of the plains. The 
men of the cliffs, though lacking nothing 
in courage, were far outnumbered. Slow- 
ly, but surely, they were driven back. 
Their chief was slain, as were most of his 
men. It seemed to Bush, second in com- 
mand, that only a handful of his own com- 
pany remained. Still, they kept fighting, 
yielding each inch of ground stubbornly. 
Battered and bleeding, the remnant of 
cliff warriors were forced back across the 
river and into the tunnel entrance. 

With their backs to the cliff wall, they 
stood at bay, fighting dauntlessly on — 
holding the enemy horde at the point of 
the spear till the treasures of the terraced 

37 



With their hacks to the wall, they stood at hay 


38 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


city — the copper and the metal — could be 
hidden in the caves. Then the remaining 
fragment of the cliff fighters, Bush among 
them, backed into the tunnel and closed 
the ponderous stone door. 

The savages swarmed up the cliffs, 
thousands of them. Though hundreds 
were beaten back, other hundreds came 
on, and kept coming, till the stronghold 
of the terraced city was doomed. 

Bush opened his eyes vaguely. Glen 
was shaking him violently, and shouting 
in his ear. Slowly he became conscious 
of his surroundings, the clearing vision 
of familiar objects and things close at 
hand fading out the picture of battle and 
of bloodshed that lately filled his sub- 
conscious mind. But even while Glen 
shook him and called to him, Bush trem- 
bled with doubt and uncertainty. He 
rubbed his eyes as if to clear them of a 
blur. He looked again at the rose-colored 
ceiling of the major’s library, stared into 
the eager and excited face of his com- 
panion. Where have I been?” he asked. 

39 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


“You’ve been right here in this chair 
for four straight hours !” Glen assured. 
“I’ve all but pulled your arm off trying 
to wake you. IVe thrown nearly a whole 
pitcher of cold water in your face. I 
would have gone for help, only for the 
fact that you gave every indication of 
being in a deep, peaceful slumber.” 

“It wasn’t such a peaceful slumber — 
not in the matter of dreams, anyhow,” 
Bush declared, stretching his arms and 
raising himself erect. Then he looked 
into Glen’s wondering face, and smiled. 
“Say, but I’ve had a time! That ‘Shang 
Kambu’ stuff must have taken me back a 
thousand years or so. Talk about battles 
and bloodshed — oh! But that company of 
mine did put up a fight! We would have 
licked the copper-skinned savages all 
right, but they were too many for us. I’d 
like to know if they found our treasures 
— our copper and metals — ” 

“Treasures?” Glen exclaimed in a 
voice of sudden interest, eyeing Bush 
curiously. “Where have you been? 
Treasure-hunting, eh?” 

40 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


“Not exactly. I’ve been a cliff- 
dweller, Glen — a real, thick-necked, squat- 
ty warrior of the bluffs ! J ust to look at me 
now you wouldn’t think it possible that 
I could be metamorphosed into a hairy, 
knotty-muscled brave carrying a sling 
and a spear. But that was what happened 
to me, in my subconscious mind at least, 
when I swallowed a few drops of that 
pale-green liquid.” 

Bush turned his awakening gaze to- 
ward the stand, and, while he looked at 
the vial, his eyes opened wider. An ex- 
pression of sudden alarm came into his 
face. He reached and picked up the bot- 
tle. Its glass stopper had not been re- 
placed. “It’s empty, Glen — empty!” he 
exclaimed. “The ‘Shang Kambu’ has 
evaporated! Not a drop is left!” 

While the two boys stared at the 
empty vial, a motor-car was heard to 
drone up and halt at the curbing near the 
gate. Glen hastily thrust the bottle into 
a drawer. Looking out, they saw a big, 
road-stained automobile, in which was a 
pair of khaki-uniformed travelers. At 

41 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


first glimpse, both the car and the passen- 
gers would have been taken for the same 
outfit that had appeared earlier in the 
day. But it was soon observed that one 
of the men was considerably heavier in 
build than either of the former callers. 
The two got out of the machine and came 
up the walk, casting swift, keen glances 
around, as if to make sure of the locality. 

Glen opened the door. With a per- 
functory salutation, the visitors stepped 
inside the library, throwing swift, keen 
glances from comer to corner of the room. 
They eyed the two boys sharply for a 
moment before making their business 
known. It was quite evident, by the look 
of disappointment on their bronzed faces, 
that they had not found things as they 
expected and hoped. 

“We have come to see Major Willard 
on private business/ * one of the pair said 
finally. 

“The major is not here,” Glen in- 
formed. 

“Not here?” the callers exclaimed. 
“We had a definite appointment with him 

42 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


to-day. We are some three hours late, 
on account of a road accident — but he 
must have known the urgency of our busi- 
ness, and would not have left — ” 

“Two other men, wearing uniforms, 
and traveling by motor-car, arrived here 
this morning,” Bush exclaimed. “They 
seemed in much of a hurry. Anyhow, they 
were in the office only a few minutes — 
just long enough to induce the major to 
put on his hat and coat and leave with 
them. They made off as hastily as they 
came, taking Major Willard with them.” 

The callers eyed each other silently, 
the expression of sober concern and disap- 
pointment deepening on their weathered 
features. “It looks as if we’re beat, Joe,” 
one remarked. Then he turned to Glen. 
“Could you give us a detailed descrip- 
tion? The color of the car? its license 
number? the size of the two men — ” 

“It was a brown machine, and con- 
siderably road-soiled. I didn’t note the 
license number. The men were more 
slight of build than either of you gentle- 
men. They were smooth-shaven, sun- 

48 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


tanned, and both dressed in regulation 
uniform, with leather puttees — ” 

“We know them!” the larger of the 
two callers assured. “They are im- 
postors, and they worked a smooth game.” 

Glen and Bush now became alarmed. 
The same fear came into the mind of 
both. “They were not Government men 1 ! 
Is that what you mean*?” Bush wanted 
to know. “And they induced Major Wil- 
lard to go with them — to leave here under 
false pretenses?” 

“If you’re guessing, you’ve hit it ex- 
actly right,” came the reply. “The two 
gents who beat us here, and got away with 
the major, actually and literally kidnaped 
the scientist.” 

“What could be their purpose in doing 
such a thing?” questioned Glen. “What 
will they gain by it? Major Willard only 
lately returned from an extended trip 
abroad. Most of our own townspeople 
have yet to learn of his arrival.” 

The callers came deeper into the li- 
brary, and they exchanged more silent 
glances before speaking further. “You 

44 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


boys are well acquainted with the major?” 
one of them asked. 

“ Quite well,” Glen informed proudly. 
“We visit him here at his library at fre- 
quent intervals when he is home. We 
came this morning in response to an invi- 
tation from him. He had something — 
well — an important — and secret — ” The 
youth hesitated, and, catching a warning 
look from his companion, added hurriedly: 
“The major had an interesting story to 
tell us of his late discoveries.” 

“You need have no hesitancy in tell- 
ing us anything that has a bearing on this 
matter,” assured the Government men. 
The boys were then given information 
that directly concerned some matters they 
already knew. .“We are exposing no 
secret when we say that Major Willard 
made a remarkable discovery in chemistry 
while following research work in a for- 
eign country. Before sailing for home, 
he sent on to the Patent Office a vial con- 
taining a solution that embodied a secret 
formula. Before this vial came under the 
jurisdiction of the American mails, it fell 

45 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


into unscrupulous hands. These parties 
learned of its peculiar nature, but were 
unable to identify the formula. Being 
foiled in their repeated attempts by de- 
partment agents, they followed up the 
major, learned in some manner of our in- 
tended appointment, and, reaching here 
this morning, made him think they were 
the real Government agents, and — ” 

“And made off with him!” the boys 
finished. 

“That’s exactly what happened. 
Where they went, and what foul work 
they may do, can only be conjectured. 
Anyhow, we must be moving on, before 
the trail gets any colder. Should you boys 
get hold of any clew, kindly notify the 
sheriff. We will inform that officer of our 
intended movements.” With no further 
questions, the Government men turned 
hurriedly from the office. Bush and Glen, 
staring silently at each other, their minds 
filled with growing anxiety, heard the 
motor-car boom off and away. 

Bush was the first to speak. “Glen, 
it’s up to us to get on the trail of the 

46 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


major, and stick to it till we find him!” 

“ Those are my sentiments !” Glen re- 
sponded with equal determination and 
purpose. “It's our duty to find the major 
— or to do our best in the attempt. The 
Government men and the sheriff will, of 
course, take up the search at once. But 
they have nothing more tangible or defi- 
nite to guide them than we have. And 
we certainly have a very slim clue. We 
have no idea which way the big car went, 
or what the kidnapers intend to do — ” 

“Yes, we do,” Bush brought in. “Any- 
how — since I have been under the magic 
spell of that ‘Shang Kambu,’ I’ve a very 
definite idea about some things. I want 
you to know, Glen, that scenes, places, ac- 
tions were pictured to me as clearly and 
distinctly as though I had actually seen 
and lived them. I believe that one of 
those impostors, who undoubtedly are the 
parties who stole the vial of solution sent 
by the major from Tibet, tasted some of 
the liquid and had practically the same 
experience as came to me. I would not 
say, of course, that his dream, or subcon- 

4 47 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


scious vision, was identical with mine, for 
it is unlikely that it would have exactly 
the same effect on different minds. But 
those men are satisfied of the peculiar 
power of the ‘Shang Kambu,’ and will at- 
tempt to force Major Willard to reveal 
the formula.’ ’ 

“They don’t know Major Willard!” 
declared Glen. “He would die before he 
would tell them. Just the same, he needs 
our help, and we should do our utmost to 
rescue him. If you have any plan — any- 
thing — ” 

“I have, partner — I have!” Bush as- 
sured. “Will you go with me, even though 
I lead you over a mighty rough trail?” 

“Go with you? Sure I’ll go!” Glen 
answered. “I merely want to be satis- 
fied that you know which way you are 
going, and what you are going for.” 

“I know both!” Bush spoke positive- 
ly. “The place where we are going is 
familiar to me. I have been there twice 
— once in the flesh, as a chain-carrier for 
a surveying crew, and again in that Shang 
Kambu vision. It’s all clear to me, Glen 

48 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


— perfectly clear — the terraced village of 
the cliffs, out in the canyon of the San 
Juan — ” 

“But how do you connect that kid- 
naping pair with the old cliff village ?” 
Glen inquired doubtfully. “What makes 
you think they would strike for such a 
region of desolation ?” 

“Because one of them is Gus Moser! 
I recall him now distinctly,’ ’ Bush spoke 
with absolute decision. “I remarked 
this morning that one of the two looked 
familiar. That one was Gus, and no 
mistake. He was a member of our sur- 
veying crew, and such a mean one that 
the boss had to discharge him. It would 
be natural for him to strike that way 
now, as he would expect no one to follow 
them there. But we will! By taking 
the train to Phoenix, aud outfitting there, 
we will be on their trail by to-morrow’s 
sun. Are you on, Glen? Are you on?” 

“On? I’m ready to start right now!” 
Glen answered heartily. 


49 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


CHAPTER FOUR. 

B USH and Glen, after hurried prepara- 
tions, left that night for the capital 
city of Arizona. Shortly after sunrise the 
following morning they had secured an 
outfit of a pair of saddle-horses and a 
pack animal, and were on their way. Be- 
fore leaving, they went the rounds of the 
garages to make inquiry concerning cars 
that had arrived since the day before. 
And they learned that one big machine, 
road-stained, and giving evidence of hav- 
ing come through a hard run, arrived dur- 
ing the night. There were three men in 
the car, so the boys were informed, two of 
these wearing regulation Government uni- 
forms, and appearing to be officers. The 
third was an elderly gentleman, clad in a 
gray traveling-coat and a checked tweed 
suit. The big car took on a supply of 
fuel, then boomed on its way. 

50 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


4 4 That car carried the pair of impos- 
tors — and the major — I’m sure!” Bush 
declared confidently. Subsequent inquiry 
brought the knowledge that the machine 
had taken the main desert road in the 
direction of the San Juan. 4 4 They are 
headed for the region of the ancient cliff- 
dwellers, all right,” he added confidently. 
4 4 But they will find mighty rough going 
before they get near their destination.” 

That this latter prediction was not far 
wrong became evident when the two 
youths, during the day’s hard ride, crossed 
sand stretches where a motor-car had left 
a crooked mark. In one place a tire, 
blown out and tattered, had been dis- 
carded. 

4 4 Looks as if we may overtake them,” 
Glen ventured hopefully. 4 4 For it must 
have been that big brown car that plowed 
through here.” 

4 4 You ’re right,” Bush agreed. 4 4 Our 
ponies may be slow — but they’re sure — 
and we can hold to a steady pace.” 

Hold to a steady pace they did, all 
through the long day, with only a brief 

51 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


halt at noon under the scant shade of 
a juniper-tree. By this time they were 
well out in the desert, and the sun beat 
hot upon the arid plains, what though 
it was mid-September. All afternoon, 
and till the purple shades of dusk fell 
over the yellow sands, the two youths 
and the trio of cayuses traveled. It was 
nearly dark when they reached a water- 
hole, and a favorable camp at the mouth 
of the canyon, a short distance from the 
base of a high, terraced bluff. In the 
pink-tinted light of the setting sun these 
terraces stood out in bold relief against 
the yellow cliffs, and revealed a ragged 
array of crumbling structures. 

Here the tired ponies were relieved of 
their loads and tethered. While Glen fed 
them and made ready for the night’s 
camp, Bush started on a reconnoiter in 
order to use what remained of daylight. 
H ewas urged to do this by the fact that 
they were now in a familiar region to him. 
He knew the wagon road terminated at a 
point not more than a half-mile farther 
on. The motor-car tracks, still followed, 

52 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


appeared to have been lately made, and 
led on up the canyon. But Bush was con- 
fident the heavy machine could not pro- 
ceed much farther. 

He climbed the bluffs, the base of 
which was already darkened by the shades 
of the desert’s quick-falling night. Up on 
the second terrace, which he reached after 
a hard scramble, he came out into the 
pink-tinted glow of sunset. Farther up, 
the day’s bright light still lingered. At 
the rim of the high ledge, Bush paused 
to get his breath and to make a survey. 
With his first glimpse he uttered a star- 
tled exclamation. Just beyond him, or at 
the opposite side of the terrace, the 
broken ruins of a huge stone structure 
squatted under the bluff. Evidently the 
greater portion of this structure had once 
been excavated from the natural rock of 
the cliff. When Bush gazed at the broken 
entrance, and turned for a look out over 
the forsaken, desert-blown valley, whose 
dry river-bed lay under the purple 
shadows of falling night, it was as if he 
were carried back to a corresponding in- 
53 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


cident of some former time. He had 
climbed up here before, while out with 
the surveying crew, but he had given lit- 
tle attention to the spot, other than a 
cursory examination of the ruins. But 
now it seemed as if he stood on ground he 
oft had frequented. And he recalled 
most vivdly the peculiar mind picture 
seen by him while under the spell of the 
“Shang Kambu,” in which the big chief 
and himself had come out here to the 
edge of the bluff for a survey of the valley, 
where the enemy camp could be seen, and 
to lay plans for attack before the begin- 
ning of the mighty battle. 

“This is the place — the identical 
spot!” Bush declared half aloud. “The 
mouth of the hidden tunnel must open 
from this terrace, a mile or so farther 
on — ” 

Bush ceased his musings and dropped 
down quickly. With startling sudden- 
ness two men, moving like shadows, came 
into view from beyond a pile of ruins. 
They were talking in low tones, but with 
considerable excited gesticulation. Both 

54 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


wore uniforms, and were dust-covered. 
Their caps and motor-goggles indicated 
they had been late passengers on an 
automobile. 

“Gus Moser and his mate!” spoke 
Bush, under his breath. He dodged into 
hiding behind a scraggly sage-bush. For- 
tunately for him, the men were much 
concerned with their own talk, and gave 
little attention to surrounding things. 
They passed within a short three yards 
of where Bush was concealed. 

“I’m afraid we’ll never make the old 
gent squeal,” one of the two said. 

“Yes, he will. We will keep him in 
that tunnel till he is forced to squeal!” 
the other one declared, and when he 
spoke, Bush recognized the voice of Gus 
Moser. “I’m satisfied he knows where 
that ancient metal is concealed. Along 
with the metal must be all manner of val- 
uable treasures. I saw the stuff plainly 
enough when I was under the spell of the 
‘Shang Kambu,’ and the old major un- 
doubtedly had the same experience when 
he made his tests. They would be more 

55 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


clear to him, and he could point them out 
if he is made to do so — ” 

The voice to which Bush listened with 
bated breath then trailed off into a muffled 
monotone, finally disappearing altogether. 
When he raised up, the figures of the two 
men were disappearing along the winding 
route of the terrace. “So it’s the treas- 
ures that pair want, eM” the youth ex- 
claimed to himself. “They have no desire 
for the formula, or they realize they can 
not get it. But they think they can force 
the major to show them something that 
he may never have seen — even in a dream. 
Well, it’s the major we want — and we are 
here to get! They have left him in the 
tunnel — helplessly bound, no doubt — and 
are now going to their car, which will 
give Glen and me a chance to effect a 
rescue.” 

He made the guess that the two men 
would return to the tunnel within the 
course of an hour, and make another at- 
tempt to extract the desired information 
from their captive. If a rescue was ef- 
fected, it would mean quick work for the 

56 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


youths. As soon as he could safely do so, 
Bush crawled out from his hiding-place 
and scrambled with all haste down the 
sheer bluff wall. He tore his clothes, he 
scratched his hands, and had two head- 
long falls down the precipitous face of the 
cliff, but he reached the valley floor con- 
siderably ahead of the slower-moving 
pair, whose route took them by a winding 
course from the terrace. 

Fortunately, Glen had not started a 
fire. Screened as they were by the growth 
that fringed the water-hole, the smallest 
sort of a light, or the smell of camp smoke, 
would have revealed their presence to 
any observer. 

“Hold up, pardner — don’t strike that 
match!” Bush cautioned, when he hurried 
up, breathlessly, and checked his com- 
panion in the act of drawing a match 
across his boot. 

“You look as if you had had a hard run 
— and had been in a real mix-up!” Glen 
exclaimed, when he noted the tattered 
state of his comrade’s clothes, his 
scratched and bleeding hands. 

57 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


“You’ve guessed it the first time,” 
Bush assured. “I’ve been up to the sec- 
ond terrace — for a look around — and that 
pair of kidnapers came along. Almost 
stepped on me. They’ve left the major in 
a tunnel — I know where it is. Come on! 
We’ll rescue him — while the two are gone 
and before they return!” 

Glen wasted no time asking questions. 
He was on his feet in an instant. Dark- 
ness was now filling the lower vale. Hur- 
rying out to the base of the bluff, the two 
paused and waited. Shortly they heard 
voices and muffled footfalls. The shadows 
of two men passed by. 

“That’s Gus and his mate!” Bush 
whispered. 

When the pair of shadows disap- 
peared, Bush and Glen began their climb 
to the terrace. Cautious as they were, 
they dislodged many noisily clattering 
shale stones, and themselves barely missed 
a headlong fall from the bluff. Gone of 
breath, they crawled out on the upper 
ledge rim, lying awhile to rest and to lis- 
ten. Deep silence reigned in the ancient 

58 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


city of the cliff-dwellers — a silence as in- 
tense and mysterious as the desert itself. 
Stars blinked down from the velvet vault 
close overhead, and the somber outline of 
the chasm walls lifted into the darkening 
night. 

“Come on — pardner!” Bush said, ris- 
ing up and leading the way. They pro- 
ceeded swiftly, but cautiously, to avoid 
dangerous falls over the boulder-strewn 
ground. They passed the broken entrance 
to the bluff cave, went under a tottering 
wall of a structure that must have been 
an ancient watch-tower. For a mile or 
more they followed the winding street, 
passing ruin after ruin, and coming final- 
ly to the black maw of a stone-arched 
tunnel. Unhesitatingly, Bush entered 
this, blinking his electric flashlight for 
the first time, and to guide their way. 

They had not proceeded far into the 
tunnel when a familiar voice, muffled, yet 
determined, called gruffly: “Stop where 
you are — you skulking hounds! You may 
as well turn back if you think you will 
get anything out of me — ” 

59 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


“Major! Major Willard!” Bush and 
Glen exclaimed in chorus. “This is Bush 
and Glen! Don’t be frightened — ” 

“Frightened? I guess not!” the old 
major answered. “I haven’t been fright- 
ened! It would take more than a pair 
of human coyotes to scare me! But say, 
this seems too good to be true! I can 
scarcely believe my eyes!” 

With his feet and hands helplessly 
bound, the major was left sitting with 
his back to the stone wall of the cave. 
He peered blinkingly toward the light 
when Bush and Glen approached, speak- 
ing words of assurance. 

“How did this happen, anyway? How 
did you get on our trail in such quick 
time?” Major Willard’s tone was one 
of utter incredulity. 

“It’s too long a story for us to tell 
now,” Glen said, as he began loosening 
the bonds that held the major captive. 

Bush blinked the flashlight intermit- 
tently. “Yes, it’s a long story,” he 
added, “and it’s all tangled up with the 
‘Shang Kambu.’ Just now, the main 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


thing with us is to make our escape be- 
fore that pair returns. They won’t be 
gone long, for it will be blindly dark on 
the ledge inside of an hour.” 

“We will have to meet them,” the 
major declared. “And the odds will be 
against us, for they are armed — both of 
them — and they won’t hesitate about 
shooting.” 

“They will have no chance to try their 
ammunition on us,” declared Bush. “For 
we won’t need to meet them, Major.” 

Both Glen and the aged captive won- 
dered how an escape could be effected 
without a face-to-face meeting with the 
armed pair. But they soon learned. 
When the major had been helped to his 
feet, and was given time to regain 
strength in his benumbed limbs, Bush 
started off, flashing the blinking torch. 
But he went in the opposite direction than 
the tunnel’s mouth! 

“Not that way, Bush — not that way!” 
Glen cautioned. 

“You are diving deeper into the tun- 
nel!” the major added. 

61 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG ICAMBU’ 


“I know it,” Bush answered assur- 
ingly. “I’ve been in here before — twice 
before. And I know the way!” On and 
on, following the course of the winding 
passage, sometimes creeping, sometimes 
crawling through places where the tunnel 
was all but filled with shattered stone 
and broken shale, Bush led the way. 
Any one with less assurance would have 
turned back, or given up hopelessly, for 
it seemed impossible that this subter- 
ranean passage could lead anywhere else 
but deeper into the bluff. Once the flash- 
light revealed a broadening, high-ceiled 
cavern with crumbling, ponderous stone 
doors on the deeply recessed walls. 

The three paused here awhile, gazing 
around with bated breath, and in silent 
wonder. “Behind those heavy doors, in 
the deep recesses of the cavern, the an- 
cient cliff-dwellers hid their treasures!” 

“Treasures!” ejaculated Glen and the 
major in low tones of amazement. And 
the old scientist, fixing a wondering gaze 
on Bush when the light flashed again, 
added: “Then, you must have been under 
62 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


the spell of the ‘Shang Kambu,’ else how 
should you know — ” 

‘ ‘ I was, Ma j or, ’ * Bush answered. 4 ‘ But 
of that you shall know later. We must 
be going now — for time is passing. These 
treasures — or these caverns, anyhow — 
will supply future work for us — work 
that can not be done to-night.” 

Through the sunken door the trio 
passed, crawled the full length of a long, 
narrow passage, and at an unexpected 
moment felt the sweet, pure air of night, 
with the stars blinking overhead. They 
had come out through the ragged hole of 
a cave entrance, in a dense thicket of 
sage and cactus. Just below lay the dry 
bed of the ancient river, with the somber 
bluff wall lifting a short distance be- 
yond. 

“Our camp is less than a mile down 
there — near the mouth of the canyon,” 
said Bush, as he raised a pointing finger. 

“And that big motor-car is closer by,” 
brought in the major. “That pair of 
smooth gents, who made away with me, 
and made me think, till I got out here, 

5 63 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


they were Government experts who want- 
ed my assistance in identifying some 
newly discovered, mysterious metal, could 
get their machine no farther than the 
end of the cliff road.” 

“And well go down there first,” said 
Bush. “It’s likely Gus Moser and his 
pal—” 

“You speak as if you’re acquainted 
with one of those gents,” brought in the 
major, curiously. 

“I am,” assured Bush. “And he is 
all that you take him to be — a first-class 
scamp! But this is the time he is play- 
ing a losing game. He and his pardner 
are due for a long, long hike over the 
hot sands. We’ll fix their chug wagon 
so they can not move it till help comes! 
Then we’ll go for our ponies. Come on! 
That pair are probably up near the tun- 
nel’s mouth now, and making a desperate 
search for their escaped captive.” 

In a few minutes the three drew near 
the spot where the big car rested in the 
sandy road. They waited a few mo- 
ments, listening, and to make sure there 

64 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


was nobody around. Then they hurried 
down, and in a few brief seconds the 
ignition-keys were removed, both of which 
had been left in place. But to make the 
plight of the luckless pair doubly sure, 
the drain-cock to the gasoline-tank was 
opened, and the precious store of fuel 
allowed to waste itself on the desert. 

“Come on!” Bush urged again, in a 
gleeful tone. “We have an outfit that 
needs no gas to travel the desert. It’s 
slow — but it’s sure!” 

They could not travel that mile over 
the sandy ground to the camp by the 
water-hole and replace saddles and packs 
on the cayuses in less than forty minutes, 
much as they hurried. And that pair of 
determined men on the terrace, having 
discovered their loss, made haste to re- 
capture the one who eluded them. Just 
as the nervously hurrying trio were 
mounting the jaded cayuses with the pur- 
pose of making out for the canyon, foot- 
falls were heard on the bluff trail. 

“Halt!” an angry voice commanded. 
But the two boys and the major, now 

65 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


mounted, struck down the road as fast 
as the tired legs of the ponies could take 
them. 

Crack! Crack! Crack! Three pistol- 
shots came in quick succession. Bullets 
whined through the still night air, but 
went wild of their intended mark. 

“Come on! Come on!” Bush called 
to his companions, as his own beast led 
off at a forced gallop. Intermingled with 
the thudding of hoofs on the sandy road 
were other shouts and cries, and more 
revolver reports. But the escaping outfit 
went untouched and unscathed, diving 
deeper into the night shadows, and main- 
taining a pace, in spite of the leg-weari- 
ness of the ponies, that the two on foot 
could not long keep up. 

“We beat them! We beat them!” 
Glen shouted triumphantly, when a long 
margin of safety had been thrown to the 
rear. “They won’t try to follow us, 
and they can’t do it, even if they try! 
They will probably be waiting back there, 
by their stranded car, when the sheriff 
comes for them!” 


66 


“Come on I Come on!” Bush called to his companions, as his own 
beast led off at a forced gallop 



67 



THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU 1 


This latter statement proved a true 
prophecy. At the first convenient place 
the escaping outfit, dead tired, halted 
and made camp. Before the cayuses were 
tethered and the blankets spread, a mo- 
tor-car boomed up the desert road, on its 
way toward the San Juan. Two men, 
both armed, leaped out of the car and 
approached the trio squatted near the 
newly built fire. The men were in uni- 
form, and were recognized at once as 
the Government agents who had visited 
the major’s office. “Beg your pardon,” 
spoke one of the two, replacing his re- 
volver, “we are on the trail of three men, 
who took this road, and we wanted — ” 

“You’ll find two of them waiting by 
their stranded car, at the mouth of the 
San Juan canyon,” Bush informed. “As 
for the third, Major Willard, we have 
him here. We found him, my companion 
and I, tied and bound in a tunnel, up on 
the cliff terrace. We stole a march on 
his captors — ” 

“Why, look here, Joe!” exclaimed the 
Government agent in a voice of surprise, 
68 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


as he drew his associate nearer the fire 
and indicated the pair of smiling youths. 
“ These are the same boys we met in the 
major’s office. And they have beaten us 
by a whole lap. Say, boys, did you come 
out here in a flying-machine?” 

“ Something slower — but more sure 
than a flying-machine, for desert travel, 
when you want to keep near the ground,” 
answered Bush, laughingly. 

“But what gets us is how you got 
such a sure scent on the trail — ” 

“It’s a long story,” assured Bush, 
truthfully. 

“And we can’t hear it now. We must 
nab that pair before they slip out of our 
fingers again.” The Government men 
turned to their car, and, after hearing a 
few words of definite direction concern- 
ing the road and the location of the 
stranded machine, boomed on their way. 
Awhile later, when silence fell over the 
desert camp, and a million stars twinkled 
from the dark-blue canopy overhead, 
Bush told the major what had occurred 
back at the office — told it frankly, truth- 

69 


THE SPELL OF THE “SHANG KAMBU’ 


fully and in detail, and ending it with 
the admission that the vial of precious 
liquid had been allowed to evaporate. 

Major Willard sat for a full minute 
or longer, after Bush had finished speak- 
ing, and stared into the dying coals of 
the scant camp-fire. “The ‘Shang Kambu’ 
is lost — lost to the world/ ’ he remarked 
lowly, but in a tone devoid of censure or 
of blame. “Not a drop of it remains, 
to my definite knowledge, and I have 
forgotten the formula. Which matters 
little, anyway, since you, my young 
friends have proved its power and its 
virtue. For by no other means than this, 
coupled with your pluck and your cour- 
age, your good sense and judgment, could 
I have been rescued. Let’s turn now to 
our blankets — and sleep the sweet sleep 
of the desert kind.” 


70 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED 
ROCK 

CHAPTER ONE. 

T RAILING the cloud of alkali dust, the 
creaking, heavily laden wagon, drawn 
by a slow-going mule team, turned off the 
main desert road at the southern border 
of Juniper Flat. Half-way across the 
“flat” — which really was no flatter than 
all the plains country round it — the outfit 
reached a clutter of shacks, sheds, pole 
shanties, vacant, and in a sad state of 
repair. Going in through the broken 
gate, the mule team halted in the scant 
shade of the juniper-pole stable. 

“Here we are!” the driver announced 
in the glad voice of the tired traveler who 
has reached his journey’s end. He was a 
clean-faced youth, with neck and arms 
thoroughly bronzed by the desert wind 
and sun. 


71 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“Yes, this is it,” he repeated, tossing 
down the lines and stretching himself. 
“This is the Blistered Rock Ranch — or 
what remains of it. Father showed me 
the corners when we were out here last 
fall. It isn’t so much for looks, Bain; but 
it gives abundant promise — and it’s ours 
— all ours!” 

Bain Stevens smiled through the alkali 
dust that powdered his face. “Blistered 
Rock is about right,” he remarked humor- 
ously, gazing round. “Whoever named 
this ranch knew how to tag things, any- 
how. Some time in the dim future this 
Juniper Flat country may blossom like 
the rose; but just now it seems to be 
chiefly the habitat of rock-lizards and 
homed toads.” 

“It isn’t as bad as it looks, Bain — 
really it isn’t!” enthused the younger 
brother. “There are forty acres down on 
the ravine floor that will grow good bar- 
ley, just as it stands, by dry-land farm- 
ing. And when the Government canal is 
finished, and this place gets under water 
— as it certainly will — we can grow more 

72 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


stuff than eight mule teams can haul to 
market.’ ’ 

“Sure! Sure!” Bain agreed. “That 
Government water can’t reach Blistered 
Rock any too soon to suit me. Even a 
few drops of something moist would be 
soothing to my parched throat right now.” 

“Water! Say, big brother, we have 
the best water on earth! Spring water, 
too, clear as crystal and as cold — cold — ” 

“Stop!” yelped Bain, raising a pro- 
testing hand. “Show me that crystal 
fountain at once, before I utterly famish.” 

They dropped off the wagon, and 
started toward the near-by coulee as fast 
as their stiffened limbs could carry them. 
A portion of the rim was a sheer bluff of 
volcanic rock and scoria. In a shallow 
basin, shaded by the gnarled junipers, a 
fissure opened, and out of this trickled a 
tiny stream. A portion remained in the 
basin, and to such thirsty creatures as 
the late comers to Blistered Rock this 
water-hole was a welcome sight. 

Bain dropped flat on his stomach, and 
dipped his face into the pool. After two 
73 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


generous gulps, lie raised and made a wry 
face. “ Clear as crystal and cold as dish- 
water !” he declared. “Well, it’s wet, 
anyhow, Andy — and that helps! So here 
goes!” 

They both drank till they could drink 
no more. “Yes, it’s wet,” the younger 
brother agreed, raising up and drying his 
moist face with his sleeve. “And we can 
make it bigger and better by digging it 
out more.' It’s the salvation of Blistered 
Rock Ranch — till the Government water 
gets here. Only for this spring, father 
and I never would have considered taking 
the abandoned claim.” 

“It’s the only hopeful thing I’ve seen 
so far,” spoke Bain, frankly. “But I may 
find something else when we’ve dug in 
awhile. We might as well begin digging, 
for there’s plenty of it to do.” 

Truly, there was work a-plenty in re- 
habilitating the abandoned ranch. Nor 
was it otherwise than the two brothers 
had expected. They had not come to the 
Blistered Rock on a quest for the pot of 
gold at the foot of the rainbow. While 

74 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


Andy unhitched the mules and watered 
them from the spring, to later give them 
a feed of mashed barley in the scant shade 
of the pole stable, Bain prepared lunch. 
Neither of the boys had eaten a bite since 
five that morning. And it was now mid- 
afternoon. They had made a long, steady 
drive, in order to reach their destination 
in ample time to get settled before dark- 
ness dropped. 

The ramshackle shanty that once had 
served as a human habitation was found 
to be utterly unfit even as a place in which 
to eat a tardy snack. So Bain spread 
luncheon in the shade of a juniper-tree. 
Out of the store of supplies brought on 
the wagon, he produced a tempting feast. 

Andy smacked his lips appetizingly. 
“This certainly must be a land of plenty/ ’ 
he remarked, as he promptly responded 
to Bain’s command to “pitch in.” “Just 
see what we have here! Cold tongue, 
pickles, sandwiches and sardines — where 
nothing grew before!” 

“And don’t forget the canned milk,” 
reminded the older brother. 

75 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“Sure not,” brought in Andy, apol- 
ogetically. “But we will have something 
better than the canned article when we 
get this old Blistered Rock — to — ” 

“Blistering!” finished Bain, as he 
mopped his perspiring brow. “Seems 
to me it’s doing that right now.” 

The meal finished, the two brothers 
began unloading the wagon of its mis- 
cellaneous cargo of canned goods, flour, 
bacon, sheets of tin, nails, lumber, feed, 
tools, boxes, and all manner of stuff 
needed as a beginning for business on 
the Blistered Rock Ranch. Such things 
as live stock, plows and farming imple- 
ments were to come later. As Bain had 
said that afternoon, the first thing need- 
ed was a place in which they themselves 
could “roost.” It was a question of 
either reconstructing the battered shan- 
ty, or of building a new one. The boys 
decided they would build a new one, using 
as much of the material in the old as 
could be salvaged. 

Not much in the way of actual build- 
ing was accomplished that afternoon. 

76 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


Both Bain and Andy were certain that a 
more suitable location could be found for 
the house. The former shanty was set too 
far from the spring. And it had been 
perched on an exposed knoll, where it had 
the full benefit of desert wind and sun. 
They decided to erect the new one nearer 
the water supply, and close under the 
high sand ridge that lay piled along the 
rim of the coulee. 

“It’s queer how these desert folks 
stick their shanties on top of ridges, or 
set them out on exposed places just as 
far from shade and windbreaks as they 
can put them,” remarked Andy. “Take 
a look at that one across the way, won’t 
you?” He indicated a badly weathered 
little house that squatted like a sage-hen 
on an elevated knoll a mile beyond the 
coulee. This little shanty and its accom- 
panying brood of pole stables and sheds 
was the only structure within sight of the 
Blistered Rock. 

“Yes, I took note of that desert man- 
sion some time ago,” Bain responded, as 
he shaded his eyes and looked over. 

77 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“And by the way, Andy, that must be 
the home of our nearest neighbor, old 
Bird Weaver, of whom we were told — 
and warned — down at Chaparral/ ’ 

“He’s a queer old ‘Bird,’ I’ll war- 
rant,” smiled Andy. “Yet he hasn’t 
proved himself the curious, pestering indi- 
vidual the land agent described. In fact, 
I haven’t seen a living thing over that 
way yet. I would like to meet him — 
really I would. Since he is to be our 
closest neighbor, we ought to become ac- 
quainted, and get on good terms at the 
start.” 

“We’ll probably meet him soon 
enough,” Bain declared. “The land agent 
said he would be troublesome — laying 
claim to things that didn’t belong to him, 
and making boasts about his rights and 
privileges. But what there is — or was — 
on this forsaken ranch that he would 
want, I can’t guess.” 

That evening, while Andy was making 
place for the mules in the pole stable, Bain 
went down to the spring for a pail of 
water. 


78 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


While stooped over the rock basin, 
filling the bucket, he heard the thumping 
of hoofs on the coulee floor. He jerked 
himself erect, and turned around. An old 
man, riding a gray mule, had approached 
to within a few yards of the spring. His 
white, unkempt hair hung in long, strag- 
gly locks beneath the brim of his slouched 
hat. His beard covered his sun-browned 
chest, his faded blue shirt and his cor- 
duroy trousers were tattered and worn. 
The saddle in which he sat, erect as some 
desert Arab, had seen better days. 

The gray mule came to a halt without 
any word of command. 

“Hello!” greeted Bain. He was al- 
most on the verge of saluting the old man 
by name. He was confident he could be 
none other than Bird Weaver. 

“Howdy!” returned the patriarch, his 
keen eyes fixed in a steady gaze on the 
youth. “Be ye one of the newcomers?” 

“I be,” answered Bain. “My name 
is Bain Stevens. My brother Andy is 
here too. We just arrived this afternoon. 
We’ve relocated the Blistered Rock.” 


79 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“So I suspicioned,” cut in the old man. 
“I’m Bird Weaver. My place adjoins. 
I’ve lived here a long time. And I want 
to ask — are you goin’ to take water from 
this spring?” 

Up till this moment, the appearance, 
manner, and even the speech, of the aged 
rider of the gray mule had been amusing; 
but with this final query, made in an un- 
compromising voice of challenge, Bain’s 
ire was aroused. The question seemed 
both impertinent and irrelevant. More- 
over, it forcefully reminded the youth of 
the warning given himself and brother 
that morning in regard to the possible 
meddling of their eccentric neighbor. 

“Yes — of course we will take water 
from this spring,” Bain answered, as 
kindly as he could. “It will be our only 
water supply till a Government canal is 
built. Anyhow, why shouldn’t we use it? 
The spring is ours. It’s on the Blistered 
Rock, and we’ve relocated the claim.” 

“No; you’re wrong,” the old man said. 
“It isn’t yours. It’s mine. It’s on my 
claim.” 


80 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


This brazen declaration from old Bird 
Weaver roused Bain Stevens’ indignation. 
It seemed so absurd, so unfair and un- 
truthful that its direct utterance, for the 
time being, made the youth utterly 
speechless. He stood and silently glared 
into the grizzled countenance of the desert 
patriarch while the latter continued to 
talk in that tantalizing, twanging voice. 


81 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


CHAPTER TWO. 

EP, it’s mine — this spring,” old Bird 



1 reiterated. “It misses your claim 
by a fraction. Your line runs right 
through here — between that split rock 
on the coulee rim and that juniper-tree 
over yonder.” He indicated the land- 
marks as he talked. “That land agent 
who was here with your father and 
brother last fall may have said this spring 
was on the Blistered Rock. But it ain’t. 
Not by a jugful. I know. I’ve lived here 
a long time.” 

Bain raised a protesting hand, and 
started to speak, but old Bird paid no 
attention. 

The twanging voice went on: “I’m not 
givin’ you orders to stop takin’ water 
from the spring. You can use it as much 
as you please — till I say quit. I jus’ want 
you to know it’s mine — that’s all.” He 


82 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


pulled the gray mule round, and rode off. 

Bain watched him go. His blood con- 
tinued to leap through his veins. His 
whole being seemed aflame with indigna- 
tion. It required some time for him to 
get control of himself. “I s’pose I 
shouldn’t be so badly worked up about 
it,” he concluded finally. “He is an old 
man, and has lived out here in the desert 
a long time. For that reason we should 
be kindly disposed toward him. But it is 
queer that he should claim the spring — 
the only good thing on Blistered Rock.” 

Andy laughed good-naturedly when 
told of the neighbor’s call. He passed 
over old Bird’s claim of ownership to the 
spring with a smile. “We must accept 
old Bird in the same generous spirit that 
we take the rock-lizards and the homed 
toads — as a necessary part of the desert. 
After while we’ll like them — actually like 
them, Bain. Of course we will! We don’t 
want to get sour on anything this early in 
the game, do we? Sure not.” 

Andy smiled yet more, happily, and 
pointed toward the west. “Look at those 

83 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


sunset colors beyond the Vermillion 
Cliffs. Did you ever see such crimson, 
such gold, such wonderful shades of blue 
and purple and lavender'? The desert 
glare is fading now, and will keep fading 
till the stars come out. Just whiff this 
breeze ! It starts when the sun goes down 
— and it gets cool, deliciously cool. Why, 
it’s very life to a man. Whiff of it, Bain 
— drink it in!” 

Andy stood up and inhaled till his in- 
flated chest seemed on the verge of 
bursting. “It’s great, big brother! It’s 
great — this life on the desert !” 

Bain was slow to catch Andy’s enthu- 
siasm. His gaze was held on that tiny 
patch of weathered gray — the little shanty 
on the knoll beyond the coulee rim. It 
was fast fading from sight, that tiny 
patch — merging into the purpling shad- 
ows that were creeping over the desert. 
Yet even its passing could not take from 
the older brother a lurking sense of trou- 
ble. A confusing array of doubts, uncer- 
tainties, fears and possibilities went 
through his brain. 


84 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“Suppose old Bird was right ?” he 
asked himself. “Suppose the spring was 
not on the Blistered Rock claim — what 
then?” 

Andy, noting his brother’s continued 
look of trouble, demanded again: “Forget 
it, Bain — forget it ! There are other birds 
in the desert than the one you met at the 
spring. You’ll probably like the others 
when you’ve heard them sing. And look 
up there — just over the blunt point of the 
Sore Thumb; the first star is coming out, 
and the sun is scarcely down. Say, big 
brother, this is great! This life on the 
desert is the real thing!” 

They ate supper, and spread their 
blankets near a convenient juniper-tree. 
Early the next morning work on the new 
shanty started in real earnest. The old 
shack, or what remained of it, had first 
to be torn down and dismantled. Desert 
storms had broken and battered it, and 
transient travelers, making camp near the 
coulee spring, had used what remained 
for fuel. In the work of hammering and 
sawing, Bain lost his anger and worry of 


‘And look up there — the first star is coining out, and the sun is 
scarcely down. Say, big brother, this is great I’ 




THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


the evening before. He decided, with his 
good-humored brother, that it was best 
to put old Bird Weaver out of mind. Un- 
doubtedly, the desert patriarch was more 
to be pitied than feared. 

Anyhow, they had work to do — real 
work — the two of them, in the rehabili- 
tation of the Blistered Rock. Every part 
and portion of the abandoned ranch must 
be rebuilt and reconstructed. It seemed 
a herculean task. But the two youths, 
filled with the unlimited enthusiasm of 
youth, buckled confidently and happily to 
the job. It was good to be out here in this 
boundless region of wide distances — out 
where every element of existence must be 
developed or shaped with their own hands. 
For this was grim reality — the desert — 
where only the fit could survive. So Bain 
and Andy, working together, caught the 
exhilarating spirit that comes to those 
who combat with world-old forces — with 
those who sweat and toil for the real love 
of work itself — and their blood tingled. 

No doubt old Bird Weaver would have 
been forgotten entirely, had the eccentric 

87 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


old neighbor remained on his own side 
of the coulee. But he did not so remain. 
It was still an hour till noon, and the 
boys were marking off the corners to 
begin the laying of the foundation for the 
shanty, when muffled hoofbeats were 
heard on the sandy ground. A moment 
later, the slouched hat, the shaggy beard, 
the tattered shirt and corduroys, and the 
lop-eared mule of the desert patriarch 
hove in view. 

“Why can’t that old Arab leave us 
alone*?” muttered Bain. “I s’pose he will 
tell us we’re building this shanty on his 
land. Next thing he will annex the whole 
Blistered Rock claim.” 

“You leave him to me,” Andy de- 
manded, smiling confidently. 

“You can have him — and welcome,” 
Bain agreed quite readily. 

The two kept busily at their work, till 
a twanging voice called in raucous salu- 
tation. “How-dee! How-de-e-e!” 

“Good morning, Mr. Weaver!” Andy 
responded cheerily. “How is everything 
on your side of the coulee?” 

88 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


Old Bird sat for awhile, his keen little 
eyes blinking rapidly. Evidently he was 
considering this last query. 

“ Which side o’ the coulee do you call 
my side?” he wanted to know. 

“Pm not just straight as to direc- 
tions,” Andy said; “but the side I am 
talking about is the side from which you 
have just come.” He made a gesture 
that took in all of the juniper-grown 
country beyond the ravine. 

“I’ll show you your comers, if that’s 
what you’re drivin’ at,” old Bird volun- 
teered. He beckoned a lean hand as if to 
lead off at once. 

Noting Andy’s discomfiture, Bain had 
to bite his lips to keep from laughing. 

“No, I don’t care to see them now — 
am too busy,” declined the good-natured 
Andy. “Anyway, I’ve seen them. The 
land agent showed the corners to father 
and me when we were out here last fall.” 

“N-o, he didn’t!” Old Bird Weaver 
shook his gray locks. “That land sharp 
played you and your dad a mean trick. 
He showed you a township comer, and not 

89 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


a section line. The corner that marks the 
location of the spring is covered over with 
sand. I know where it is, for I’ve seen 
it. I’ve lived here a long time.” 

Andy had no inclination to begin a 
discussion of section corners and town- 
ship lines with their neighbor, so he 
bluntly changed the subject. “Bain and 
I have started a new shanty.” 

“I suspicioned you were doin’ that 
very thing,” drawled old Bird. 

Both youths wondered what the patri- 
arch’s “suspicions” were directed against 
this time. 

“Yep, I suspicioned as much when I 
saw you t earin’ down the old shack and 
begin totin’ the stuff over here.” He 
shook his head dubiously while he criti- 
cally eyed what had been done. 


90 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


CHAPTER THREE. 

D ON’T you think this is a suitable 
place to build it?” questioned Andy. 
“No, I don’t,” old Bird answered 
frankly. “This ain’t no suitable place for 
a shanty at all. You’d better left it 
where it was.” 

“That dirty, wind-battered shack was 
impossible,” the younger brother ex- 
plained. “It was too far from the spring, 
and on a sand knoll — right out in the 
burning sun — ” 

“Which was just the place for it,” 
interjected the neighbor. “I know what 
I’m talking about. I’ve lived here a long 
time.” 

The two brothers gazed into the griz- 
zled countenance of old Bird with ex- 
pressions of doubt and uncertainty. 
“What’s wrong with this location?” 
Andy wanted to know. 

91 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“It ain’t safe,” the patriarch replied. 

The newcomers were not convinced. 
They exchanged sly glances, and between 
them passed a look of mutual understand- 
ing, also of agreement. 

“Nope, it ain’t safe!” repeated old 
Bird, but the declaration fell on deaf 
ears. When Andy and Bain looked up 
again, the old man and the gray mule 
were gone. To Bain’s query as to what 
Andy thought about it, the younger 
brother replied: 

“I think exactly what I thought be- 
fore — this peculiar neighbor of ours, 
though blessed with a ripe old age, and 
deserving of our consideration, is rather 
a queer ‘Bird.’ ” 

“But what do you think of this site 
as a safe, sane and suitable location for 
a shanty?” Bain wanted to know. 

• “It suits me,” said the younger 
brother. 

“And me, too,” spoke Bain, with equal 
satisfaction. “Some men might live on 
the desert a thousand years, and still not 
learn it all.” 


92 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“You’re a wise philosopher, big 
brother,” smiled Andy. “Some day, if 
you live here long enough, you’ll be as 
wise — well, as wonderfully wise — as our 
mutual friend — ” 

Andy let it go unfinished. Bain had 
seized a juniper stick and raised it threat- 
eningly. They returned to their work in 
a better mood — and with no change of 
plans. Before the long day ended, the 
shanty began to take form. Not again 
that day, nor for many days, did old Bird 
bother the busy newcomers with his “sus- 
picions.” Several times he rode the lop- 
eared mule as far as the opposite rim of 
the coulee, where he sat in the saddle and 
watched operations from afar. 

Came the day when the new domicile 
for the owners of the Blistered Rock was 
as completely finished as the supply of 
available materials would allow. True 
enough, it wasn’t much of a house, as 
houses go, but it was a house — a real 
shanty, with two fair-sized rooms, in 
which to cook and eat and sleep. Crude 
as it was, Andy and Bain were proud of 

93 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


it. They had built it with their own 
hands. It was all their own. And they 
beamed upon it with eyes of satisfaction. 
They promptly moved their stuff into it 
— the little kitchen stove, the folding 
table, the two cots, the few pieces of fur- 
niture, and their cooking-duffle. 

The rebuilding of the pole stable, 
repairing of fences, cutting new juniper 
posts, clearing additional land, offered no 
end of work for them. They were anxious 
to have much of this done by the time 
their father made his visit of inspection 
late that fall. With the passing of the 
days, the spirit of the desert took a firm- 
er grip upon them. They had learned to 
look upon this boundless country as a re- 
gion of gold by day, a fairyland by night. 
They were awed by its mystery, and 
enchanted at times by its fascinating 
colors. Sitting in the front door of the 
shanty close under the sand ridge, they 
had a broad survey of the desert. Looking 
across the coulee, they could see the 
weathered little shack of old Bird Weaver 
on the knoll among the junipers. On 

94 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


beyond spread the wide, wide region of 
yellow sand, gray sage and purple flats, 
to where the Sawtoothed Range lifted 
its ragged backbone against the horizon. 
Out there, on that vast, level floor, other 
human beings, hardy and hopeful, were 
digging and building, fencing and claiming, 
making ready for that glad day when 
“the Government water would come,” 
and with its coming turn the arid acres 
into productive fields. 

One dull, gray day — a strangely gray 
day for the desert — Bain and Andy sat 
in their door and looked out across their 
barren world with eyes of contemplation. 
They had finished their noonday meal, 
and were resting. For some peculiar 
reason, they both felt tired and uneasy. 
It might have been the dull, gray day. 
Indeed, nothing is more depressing than 
a dull, gray day on the desert. 

Bain cast a glance toward the leaden 
sky. “What do you think of it, Andy?” 
he queried. “This weather, I mean.” 

The weather had been of such un- 
broken monotony since their coming to 

95 


7 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


the Blistered Rock that it had never be- 
fore offered itself as a fit topic for con- 
versation. 

“ Feels as if we might have a ‘ quake/ ” 
observed the younger brother. “ There’s 
something sort of squeamish in the at- 
mosphere. Good old sunshine is about 
the only thing that fits out here.” He got 
up and went back into the kitchen to get 
busy with the tin dishes. He felt better 
when at work. Bain soon joined him. 

Awhile later, they heard a muffled 
thumping of hoofs on the sandy yard. 
Both listened a moment, then exchanged 
glances of mutual understanding. “More 
suspicions !” smiled Andy. 

“Ill do the honors this time,” Bain 
volunteered, as he dropped the dishrag 
and hurried to the door. 

“ How-dee 1 How-dee-e-e!” sang a 
voice in a familiar twang as Bain looked 
out. The lop-eared gray mule stood near 
the shanty step. Old Bird Weaver sat 
in the saddle. 

“Hello, Mr. Weaver!” greeted Bain. 
“Won’t you tie up and come in?” 

96 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


i 6 Nope! I can’t stop I Must be 
gettin’ back soon.” The keen gray eyes 
were cocked skyward. “I suspicion we’re 
goin’ to have some weather.” 

A similar 4 ‘ suspicion” had filtered 
into the uneasy minds of the Stevens 
brothers. The disturbing element with 
them was their inability to guess what 
sort of weather was forthcoming. 

“It does look that way,” Bain agreed. 
The sun was completely obscured now by 
that thickening veil of leaden gray. The 
wind rose in fitful gusts, lifting the sand 
in little clouds above the floor of the 
desert. 

“Yep, we shore are a-goin’ to have 
some weather!” old Bird repeated soberly, 
as he gave his hoary head an ominous 
shake. He urged the mule closer, and, 
leaning over, gave Bain a penetrating 
gaze. 

“There’s a-goin’ to be some weather,” 
the patriarch repeated again. “I know 
the signs. I’ve lived here a long time. I 
notice you have your mules in the pole 
stables, which is good. My advice is for 

97 



Came the shrieking blast that threatened to uplift and blow the tiny 

house away 


98 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


you boys not to leave this shanty the rest 
o’ the day.” 

The mule was reined about, and urged 
into a jog-trot. Bain and Andy, speech- 
less, remained on the shanty step. The 
wind had stiffened. More dust clouds 
lifted. The eastern horizon had turned 
black as ink. And out of this somber wall 
came a deep-toned, guttural note of 
thunder. 

The two boys rushed inside, and shut 
the door. Almost as quickly came a 
shrieking blast that threatened for an in- 
stant to uplift and blow the tiny house 
away. The Blistered Rock was at once 
enveloped in a blinding, swirling cloud of 
flying sand. Darkness came, though it 
was several hours till night. 

Andy attempted to speak, but had to 
raised his voice to a yell in order to be 
heard above the howling and shrieking 
of the gale. “I suspicion we’re going to 
have some weather.” 

“ Looks to me as if we’re having it 
right now,” responded Bain. 


99 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


CHAPTER FOUR. 

NDY made another attempt to look 



a \ through the window. He could as 
easily have seen through a thunder-cloud. 
He turned to his brother with an expres- 
sion of growing fear. “Old Bird may 
have been right, after all,” he remarked 
soberly. “Possibly we did make a mis- 
take in the location of this shanty.” 

Bain made a grim attempt to smile. 
“I suspicion as much,” he quoted. “Old 
Bird ought to know a few things about 
this desert country.” 

“He has lived here a long time,” 
chimed in Andy. The two laughed then, 
and felt better. Still the storm beat 
down in merciless fury upon the little 
house. Now and then a wailing gust 
threatened to lift and hurl it from its 
foundation. The roof, the walls, every 
crack and crevice leaked sand like a sieve. 


100 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“Ugh! This is fierce!” sputtered 
Andy, as he dumped a load of fine grit 
from his hat, and shook more of it from 
his clothes. 

“I’m afraid the whole sand ridge is 
moving down on top of us,” Bain spoke 
fearfully. 

“It can’t be that bad,” gasped the 
younger brother. 

It became so dark that Bain lighted a 
lantern. Creaking, groaning, quivering, 
the shanty lifted at one corner as if it 
would take wings. 

“If this shack flies, we’ll go with it!” 
spoke Bain, grimly, as he set the lantern 
on the table. 

After a few uncertain moments, the 
little house dropped back into place. Then 
came a peculiar silence. At first the im- 
prisoned youths took this to mean the 
passing, or the near passing, of the desert 
gale. But it was still dark — even darker 
than before. 

Bain went to the door, raised the latch, 
and started to open it. Instantly there 
poured in an avalanche of sand. Bain 
101 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


quickly hurled his weight against the 
door, and yelled frantically: “Help me, 
Andy — help me — or well be buried 
alive !” 

Their combined efforts were required 
to get the door closed. It was as if some 
mighty hand was pushing against it from 
the outside. 

“I won’t try that trick again!” mut- 
tered Bain, when the latch had been 
securely fastened. “The hurricane is 
still howling, Andy — just as fierce as 
ever.” 

“I suspicioned as much,” smiled Andy, 
as if determined to make the best of the 
situation. 

And the situation was anything but 
pleasant. The youths realized now that 
the shanty was actually being buried in 
the sand. How deeply it would be buried 
before the desert storm passed was a mat- 
ter for conjecture. Neither would ven- 
ture a guess. They could only wait and 
hope. To attempt to get out, or to make 
their escape while the hurricane was on, 
would mean certain death. 


102 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


It was the waiting that finally got on 
the nerves of the imprisoned pair. Inac- 
tivity was not a part of their active creed. 
This thing of being helplessly confined 
within the narrow limits of the little, 
two-room shanty was the worst form of 
torture. They began walking round and 
round, aimlessly pausing now and then to 
listen. The silence grew. The hurricane 
seemed a long ways off, manifesting it- 
self only in distant rumbling and moan- 
ing. Finally even these sounds died out. 

“I believe it’s over,” spoke the older 
brother, in a voice of hope. 

“ 4 Over’ is right!” Andy agreed. “It’s 
all over this shanty — the sand, I mean! 
Well have to do as the prairie-dogs do — 
burrow our way out.” 

They were afraid to attempt egress by 
the door or window, for to open either 
would admit a choking avalanche of sand. 

“How deep do you s’pose we’re 
buried?” Bain speculated, as he took the 
lantern from the table. 

“I’m a poor guesser,” confessed the 
younger brother, hopelessly. “If we had 

103 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


an ax, we might cut a hole in the roof. 
We’d soon know whether the whole sand 
ridge is on top of us.” 

But they had no ax, no tool of any 
sort inside the shanty, with which they 
could cut or dig. Now that the hurricane 
had passed, their restlessness grew. They 
wanted to get out of the buried shanty. 
Moreover, they were determined to get 
out. Both were certain that the sand 
was piled as high as the eaves of the 
shanty. Possibly the little house was 
buried completely. Anyhow, their only 
chance of escape was through the roof. 

“I believe I can cut a hole in the tin 
with my knife,” said Bain. 

“But you can’t cut the sheeting — not 
unless you take a long time for the job,” 
declared Andy. 

“I’d rather be cutting our way out 
with a jackknife than doing nothing,” 
spoke Bain, with growing restlessness. 

The rooms were not ceiled, and to 
reach the comb of the roof, at its highest 
point, the prisoners dragged the table 
to the center of the front room, and 

104 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


stacked a pair of packing-boxes and a 
trunk on top. Bain made ready to climb 
to the crest of this makeshift scaffolding, 
when a sound, from afar off, was heard. 

The prisoners stood listening. They 
feared at first the hurricane was rising 
again. While they listened, they caught 
the sound more distinctly. It was some 
one calling — shouting down the stovepipe! 

“It’s old Bird — good old Bird!” ex- 
claimed Andy, as he thumped Bain on the 
back. No sound, no music, could have 
been sweeter to the imprisoned youths 
just then than the twanging voice of old 
Bird Weaver. 

Andy ran to the stove, and jerked off 
the lids. Putting his face near the base 
of the pipe, he yelled excitedly: “Hoo-ra-a! 
Hoo-ra-a! The gang’s all here!” 

“I suspicioned you’d all be safe,” 
came the glad response of the patriarch. 
“An’ I’m a-goin’ to help you git out. Do 
you hear — I’m a-goin’ to help you — ” 

“Sure! Sure!” Andy yelled. “Just 
tell us how, will you? We’re ready to 
make our exit at any time.” 

105 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


“I’ll drop an ax down the pipe,” 
directed old Bird from aloft. “You cut 
a hole in the roof — right in the middle. 
I’ll clear away the sand up here!” 

The ax came clattering down the 
pipe. Andy seized it eagerly. 

“Let me have it!” Bain demanded. 
“I was all ready to climb up.” 

Andy gave it up reluctantly, support- 
ing the shaky scaffolding while Bain 
clambered aloft. In a moment the older 
brother was up under the rafters and 
was striking viciously at the wood and 
tin. 

“I’ll spare you — when you get tired,” 
volunteered Andy. 

But Bain did not stop till he had a 
jagged hole cut in the roof. On first 
being opened, it let in a flood of sand. 
When this quit pouring, there came a 
widening beam of light and a peep of 
blue sky — came also a draft of clean, 
pure air. 

“Say, big brother, but that does taste 
good!” Andy, holding to the stack of 
boxes, inhaled deeply. 

106 


THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


The bony hands and the long arms of 
old Bird Weaver came in through the 
opening. But neither Bain nor Andy 
saw they were rough and calloused. They 
saw only, and they knew for a truth, that 
they were neighborly, helpful hands, ex- 
tended to them in time of need. 

“Come up, you two — I’ll help you 
through — one at a time,” twanged the 
voice of the patriarch. 

“You first, Andy,” directed the older 
brother, climbing down. “I want to 
catch my breath.” 

So, by the help of old Bird Weaver, 
they climbed out of the buried shanty, 
and the two stood for awhile, dazed by 
the blinding glare of the late afternoon 
sun. The storm had gone on, and the 
desert floor lay as clean as if a gigantic 
broom had been used upon it. 

Old Bird Weaver was talking — and 
pointing toward the rim of the coulee. 
“That’s your comer — or one of them — 
right where I said it was. The storm 
uncovered it. There’s a pile of lava 
stones markin’ the spot.” 

107 



By the help of old Bird Weaver they climbed out of the buried shanty 


108 






THE SPRING ON BLISTERED ROCK 


Bain and Andy, shading their eyes, 
looked over that way — and they saw that 
the old man spoke the truth. The realiza- 
tion came to them that old Bird had 
spoken the truth before — the spring was 
not on the Blistered Rock claim. 

“It's jus’ as I tole you,” the twanging 
voice went on, not unkindly, not accus- 
ingly, but as if stating an unalterable 
truth. “The spring is on my claim. But 
I don’t need it, an’ you boys can keep 
right on usin’ it. This shanty, too, ought 
not ha’ been built under the sand ridge.” 

“You’re right, Mr. Weaver — exactly 
right!” brought in Bain in big-hearted 
agreement. “You were right when you 
warned us, and we should have listened. 
We will have to rebuild the shanty, and 
next time we will place it where it should 
be. We want your advice in getting this 
old Blistered Rock reclaimed. For we 
intend to stay here — ” 

“I suspicioned as much,” chimed in 
old Bird, happily. “An’ I’m glad to 
hear it. I’m satisfied you folks will make 
mighty good neighbors.” 

109 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


W HEN Dunk raised up for a moment, 
to rest Ms back, he discovered old 
Fiddlin’ Bill standing near by. Fiddlin’ 
Bill had not come up the slope from the 
warm shanty to help him shovel snow 
from the trail. Dunk was sure of that. 
But the boy was quick to note that the 
old man held a steady gaze on the gulch 
road, as if keenly interested in something. 

Dunk looked down and saw a lone 
horseman strike out from Pine Ridge 
mimng camp in the direction of Boulder, 
the nearest railway town. The boy knew 
that big, black horse, even from this dis- 
tance. And he knew the heavily cloaked, 
erect figure in the saddle. Nero, the big 
black, and Jud Macklin, the boss of Pine 
Ridge mine, were familiar objects to the 
roustabout. Whither they were bound, 
no 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


and what urgent business would take 
them out over the snow-piled road, were 
matters that Dunk gave no time to con- 
sider. He felt a bit concerned, however, 
as he returned to his shoveling, when he 
heard old Fiddlin’ Bill remark: 

“ There goes the boss, an’ it’s a ten- 
to-one guess with me that he’s takin’ out 
a bag o’ gold. It’s close to clean-up time, 
so I heard a digger say yesterday. Them 
diggers are a bunch o’ fools, anyhow. 
Here they are, workin’ their arms off an’ 
their hearts out just to make more money 
for rich men like Jud Macklin. Now, 
if I had my way, I’d have every digger 
on the job make a strike for twice the 
pay he gets now, and cash in on some o’ 
the gold they’re diggin’ for rich gents 
like Jud — ” 

Old Fiddlin’ Bill rambled on with 
more such talk, but Dunk Blevins turned 
a deaf ear. For one thing, Dunk was 
busy. He was on a job — a job that big 
Jud Macklin, the mine boss, had given 
him. What was more, he liked big Jud 
— liked him in spite of the contrary talk 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


of the trouble-making Bill. “Jud Mack- 
lin has played square with me,” declared 
the boy. “He gave me a job, and he 
pays me good money — ” 

“Yes, he gave you a job, an’ you 
take the pay he gives you — which is less 
than half what you might have,” sneered 
Fiddlin’ Bill. “It’s fools like you, and 
them diggers down in the mine, that 
keeps a lot of us poor and a few favored 
ones rich. Bah! Go on with your fine 
talk o’ the boss! Lean to your shovel, 
if you’ve no better sense!” Growling 
and muttering, as was his way, Fiddlin’ 
Bill, the trouble-maker, turned down the 
slope toward the shanty, while Dunk 
Blevins kept on with his job of shoveling 
snow from the upper trail. Dunk had 
promised the boss that morning he would 
have the path clear by the time of the 
noonday whistle, and he meant to keep 
his word. 

Nearly an hour later he straightened 
up again. The hard work had brought the 
perspiration, in spite of the fact that it 
was December, and snow lay deep on the 
112 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


California Siskiyous. But the wind that 
whispered through the tall pines brought 
with it a balmy suggestion of smiling 
valleys where orange groves blossomed 
in the sunshine. And the warmth of it 
might have made Dunk Blevins homesick 
only for the belief that in Pine Ridge 
and in Jud Macklin he had found the 
place and the man that would give him 
his needed chance. Just as he leaned 
again to his shovel, an object, moving 
along the gulch road, caught his eye. 
He raised up, shaded his face and gazed 
below. A big, black horse with a heavily 
cloaked figure in the saddle cantered in 
the direction of camp. 

“It's Nero — and big Jud,” said Dunk 
to himself. Then he smiled as he recalled 
the remark of Fiddlin’ Bill a short while 
before. For Fiddlin’ Bill had guessed 
wrong. The boss could not have been on 
his way to Boulder, with a bag of gold, as 
such a trip would have taken the whole 
day. 

Dunk went on with his work, and did 
not ease up again till nearly noon. Then 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


he made his way down the slope to the 
shanty of Fiddlin’ Bill. The boy returned 
early, because he knew it would be his 
place to bring in more pitch pine and fir 
bark to cook the meal. This day, as always 
before, he felt a loathing for the shanty and 
for the man who owned it. True enough, 
Fiddlin’ Bill had taken him in and given 
him shelter — but Fiddlin’ Bill, the trou- 
ble-maker, whom Dunk had learned was 
secretly trying to organize a Bolshevik 
“ order of Reds” in the mining camp, was 
not the sort the boy wanted to mix with. 

When Dunk had reached the road and 
started across toward the cabin, he saw 
Fiddlin’ Bill shamble out and wave an 
urging hand. Evidently the fire had 
burned low and the wood was gone. Dunk 
did not hurry. He slowed his pace, debat- 
ing with himself whether to go on or to 
turn toward the main camp. He was 
thinking of big Jud, the boss — of the man 
who had given him a job, who had faith 
in him, and whom he wanted to please. 
Truly, big Jud could not hold great confi- 
dence or trust in one who associated with 


114 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


such trouble-makers as Fiddlin’ Bill. 
Dunk might have turned his face toward 
the camp — turned his back upon Fiddlin’ 
Bill and the loathsome shanty, only that 
his eye, just then, was attracted by some- 
thing that lay half covered in the snow 
near his feet. Fie drew closer, and, stoop- 
ing, reached to pick it up. 

He uttered a low cry of amazement 
when his fingers clutched a canvas bag. 
And when Dunk Blevins lifted it he knew 
by its weight that the bag contained gold 
— many pounds of rich, heavy gold! As 
he held it in his trembling hands, wonder- 
ing and silent, he heard muffled footfalls 
from the direction of the shanty. Turn- 
ing, he saw Fiddlin’ Bill approaching. A 
sinister smile came quickly to the grizzled 
face of the old trouble-maker — and he 
soon guessed the truth. “You’ve struck it, 
kid ! ” he remarked suggestively. “You ’ve 
got the stuff that will keep both of us on 
Easy Street for a long, long time! Bring 
it on to the cabin!” 

At that same instant, Jud Macklin, 
the mine boss, was warming his back be- 
ns 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


fore the fire that crackled and leaped in 
the fireplace of his office cabin. “I had 
to give up the trip,” he explained to 
Dixon, the bookkeeper. “The snow didn’t 
bother me, but Nero lost his wind — 
couldn’t hold the pace. The hostler fed 
him too much barley last night, and he’s 
about foundered this morning. I took the 
saddle-bags off, and left them on the 
porch. I wish you’d bring them in, 
Dixon. Since we can’t send out that gold 
for a few days, we’d better put it in the 
safe.” 

The bookkeeper went out, and, return- 
ing shortly, laid the saddle-bags on the 
plank desk. There was a curious, puz- 
zled expression on his face. “Did I 
understand you to say there was a 
month’s clean-up in these bagsl” he re- 
marked quizzically to the manager. 

“Yes, that’s right,” was the reply. 

“Well — there must be something 
wrong. These bags are light as cotton. 
One side is open!” 

The boss whirled round quickly, catch- 
ing the note of alarm in the voice of 
116 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


Dixon. “ What’s that?” he exclaimed. 
“Did you say the bags are open?” He 
crossed the room to the desk, lifting the 
leather pouches and holding them up. 
Then he thrust his hand under the flap. 
The bookkeeper was right; the bags were 
empty! 

“The gold is gone,” announced Jud 
Macklin in low, subdued tones. “Every 
ounce of it is gone — more than $20,000!” 

“The bags were just as you find them 
now — when I picked them up — out on the 
porch — ” Dixon made haste to explain, 
as if fearing suspicion. 

“I know,” the manager assured con- 
fidently. “Nobody stole the gold. At 
least, nobody stole it from me. It fell out 
of the bags. These pouches are old, and 
the seam ripped. You can see what hap- 
pened. I should not have trusted them 
with the weight of so much metal.” 
Macklin held up the torn bags for the 
bookkeeper to see. “The gold fell out on 
the road. But it may be covered with 
snow. I must have lost it on my return 
to camp, or I would have found it as I 

117 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


came in. But just how far back I dropped 
it I don’t know.” 

Jud Macklin’s voice now lost its tone 
of excited alarm. He was the mine boss 
again, cool, calm, sure of himself. The 
truth that a whole month’s product of the 
Pine Ridge diggings was somewhere out 
there on the snow-piled trail did not make 
him lose his head. “Go tell Simpson to 
saddle the two roans, and come round to 
the office,” he directed. “I want him to go 
with me. We must hit the road at once.” 

Dixon dashed out hurriedly, while the 
boss again pulled on his heavy overcoat. 
Within a few minutes Simpson, the fore- 
man, with two roans, was at the door. A 
few low-toned words passed between the 
two men, and then they struck down the 
snow-piled road, holding their mounts to 
a slow pace. The keen, searching eyes of 
the boss and the foreman were held on 
the road. No track or print escaped their 
notice. It was evident that no rig or 
team had passed over the road since the 
boss came in, and this gave hope that the 
lost gold would be found. 

118 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


A short mile out of Pine Ridge, Jud 
Macklin, who was in the lead, brought 
his horse to an abrupt halt. A line of 
tracks, made by human feet, crossed the 
road. The tracks led from the upper trail 
to the shanty of Fiddlin’ Bill. There 
were two pairs of footprints — one made 
by the shoes of a boy — the other by the 
boots of a man. Directly in the middle of 
the road the tracks were numerous, much 
as if the boy and the man had halted and 
moved about in a close circle. 

i ‘ What have you found?” asked the 
foreman, riding up. 

“Am just taking a look here,” re- 
marked the boss. “I know these tracks 
well enough; they were made by Fiddlin’ 
Bill and the roustabout — that new boy, 
Dunk Blevins. Dunk has been at work 
on the upper trail this morning, and he 
would have crossed the road a couple of 
times going and coming — ” 

“But he wouldn’t have made all these 
prints — just crossin’ the road!” declared 
the foreman. “Why, look down there, 
man — see the prints — dozens of ’em! And 

119 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


here’s another mark in the snow. See — 
it looks as if some object lay there, half 
buried.” Simpson leaned far over in his 
saddle and indicated the mark with his 
gloved hand. “My guess is that the bag 
of gold dropped right there — in that spot 
— and if Fiddlin’ Bill, or that new kid, 
got their fingers on it — ” 

The foreman hesitated, straightening 
himself in the saddle and looking toward 
the shanty. 

“We’ll ride over to the cabin,” sug- 
gested the boss. “Fiddlin’ Bill and Dunk 
must be in, as there is a fire burning.” 

“We’d better not ride,” cautioned 
Simpson. “Not toward the shanty, any- 
how. They’d hide the stuff if they saw 
us cornin’. My plan is to ride on down the 
road, and leave our horses in the brush, 
while we sneak back to the shanty afoot.” 

“You don’t seem to place much trust 
in Fiddlin’ Bill'?” remarked the boss. 

“You’re right, I don’t,” returned the 
foreman, decisively. “Nor in that kid 
either. They’re two of a kind — that 
pair!” 


120 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


After concealing their mounts, the 
foreman and the boss crept through the 
snow-laden manzanita bushes to the shan- 
ty of Fiddlin’ Bill. A short distance from 
the cabin they came upon the line of 
tracks again. These indicated that a man 
and a boy had lately passed that way. 

The two halted and exchanged a few 
cautious words. “ Shall we break in on 
’em unannounced — or tap on the door?” 
asked Simpson. 

“I think we’d better walk up quietly 
and listen,” answered Jud Macklin. “To 
be honest with you, Simp, I’m not so sure 
that the boy Dunk is in on this — in a 
guilty way, I mean. Somehow I have a 
lot of confidence in the lad — ” 

“Yes, but look at the company he 
keeps,” demanded the foreman. “Old 
Fiddlin’ Bill is a trouble-maker, an’ the 
sooner we get him out o’ camp, the better 
will it be for Pine Ridge.” 

“We should not blame Dunk for being 
in Fiddlin’ Bill’s company,” said the 
boss. “Anyhow, it isn’t likely the boy 
will stay with him long.” 

121 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


“Just the same, if they’ve found that 
bag o’ gold, I wouldn’t give much for 
the chance o’ gettin’ it back,” persisted 
the foreman. “They’re both alike — ” 

Simpson broke off his talk abruptly, 
and both men listened silently. The 
growling voice of Fiddlin’ Bill could be 
plainly heard, mingled with the thump- 
ing of heavy boots on the cabin floor. 

“Come on,” whispered the boss, “let’s 
hurry round to the rear.” 

Bending their backs, and stooping, to 
avoid the low-hanging boughs, they crept 
on under the firs and reached the back 
wall of the shanty. Here they halted 
again, their ears near a chink between the 
rough logs. 

“You’re a crazy young fool!” came 
the angry voice of Fiddlin’ Bill. “It’s 
our gold — yours and mine! Didn’t we 
find it in the road? Why should you take 
it back?” 

“It isn’t ours,” answered a youthful 
voice that the two men quickly recognized 
as that of Dunk Blevins. “The boss lost 
it—” 


122 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


“An* he won’t miss it!” brought in 

Bill. 

“Yes, he will miss it,” declared Dunk. 
“He must have missed it, or he wouldn’t 
have come back to camp.” 

“He failed to find it — an’ that’s his 
loss, not ours,” said Fiddlin’ Bill. “Any- 
how, he’s rich, an’ he don’t need it. 
There’s plenty more gold in the Pine 
Ridge mine.” 

“This gold is not ours — none of it. 
And I’m going to take this right back 
to the boss.’ 

The two men, listening at the chink, 
heard footfalls on the floor. Evidently 
Dunk had started for the door. But he 
did not get far. Shortly the voice of 
Fiddlin’ Bill was heard again. 

Simpson raised up as if to move round 
to the front of the shanty, when the boss 
restrained him. “Wait a minute,” whis- 
pered Macklin, “I want to hear what old 
Bill has to say.” 

“You listen to me, you foolish little 
brat, an’ I’ll put some sense in your 
head,” demanded old Bill, sternly. “Yes, 

123 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


an’ I’ll put some money in your pocket. 
We’re goin’ to start an order o’ the Reds 
in this camp — an’ we need the stuff to get 
the thing goin’. This will be our chance. 
The diggers in this mine can just as well 
get double the pay they’re gettin’ now. 
All they need to do is strike. I’ve talked 
with a lot of ’em, and a number are ready 
to join when the thing looks sure. With 
this stuff I can make it sure. It will be a 
big go — an’ you should be one o’ the 
bunch. Come on — hand it over, an’ I’ll 
call in some o’ the crowd to celebrate.” 

A few moments of tense silence fol- 
lowed. The men at the rear wall held 
their breath, as if waiting for the an- 
swer of Dunk Blevins. They guessed 
that Piddlin’ Bill, too, waited the an- 
swer — that Fiddlin’ Bill, huge and men- 
acing, stood over the boy that held the 
bag of gold, as in truth he did. 

The boss raised himself erect, his face 
tensely drawn, his gloved hands tightly 
clenched. “He’s a ‘Red’ all right — that 
troubling old Bolshevik!” muttered the 
boss, angrily. 


124 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


“Yes, an’ the kid will likely prove no 
better,” declared Simpson. 

“Sh-h-h! You wait!” demanded 
Macklin. 

Then came the voice of Dunk Blevins, 
clear and decisive: “Get out of my way, 
you big growler! If you take me for 
the sort that will play false with the boss, 
you’ve made a bad guess. He’s a white 
man — Jud Macklin is — and I’ll stand by 
him. This is his gold, and I’m going to 
take it to him. Stand back, I say! Get 
out of my way, or I’ll — ” 

Then came the sound of trampling feet 
— the deep-toned, guttural voice of Fid- 
dlin’ Bill, the shrill, determined crescen- 
do of Dunk Blevins. 

It was Simpson, the foreman, who 
gave the word to move. “Come on, boss,” 
he spoke hurriedly. “The kid’s true blue 
— and we must get inside before that old 
Bolshevik gets him down!” 

They rushed round to the front, and 
broke in the rough-paneled door. And 
they were none too soon. For, fast as 
they had come, Fiddlin’ Bill, in a fit of 

125 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


rage, had floored Dunk with a blow from 
his heavy fist. Dunk, though hurled in 
a crumpled heap to a corner of the shan- 
ty, clung tenaciously to the bag of gold. 
He was making a vain effort to get up 
when Simpson and the boss rushed in. 

Before the maddened Fiddlin’ Bill 
could administer a second kick with his 
heavy boot on the prostrate form of the 
boy, Simpson seized him by the collar 
and jerked him back. One heavy swing 
from the foreman’s calloused hand sent 
the trouble-maker sprawling to the far 
end of the shanty. Then Simpson stooped 
and tenderly raised Dunk Blevins, pil- 
lowing the boy’s bruised head on his 
arms. “We ought of rushed in here 
sooner,” he declared. “For that big 
brute might have finished you. Anyhow, 
I know now, Dunk, old man, that you’re 
the real stuff.” 

“Here’s your gold — boss — Mr. Jud — 
it’s all yours — and I would have brought 
it back!” stammered the boy between 
breaths, as he held forth the heavy bag 
for the manager to take. 

126 


THE GOLD FROM PINE RIDGE 


‘ 4 Sure, Dunk — sure!” Jud Macklin 
said. “It was safe in your hands. As for 
that old trouble-maker — well see that 
he’s put where he can do no further harm. 
And I’ll make room for you down in my 
quarters. You’re the sort I want for com- 
pany. Thanks to you, there will be no 
‘ order of Reds’ in this camp!” 


& 


127 



SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 

W HY does Bob Haver give that old, 
blind horse the best stall in the 
barn and the best feed his ranch affords ?” 

Repeating the question whimsically, 
and casting a side glance in the direction 
of the lot where a huge, rawboned horse 
roamed at will, Uncle Dan Frazer, the 
ranch boss, dropped into a tone of remi- 
niscence. Those of us who knew Uncle 
Dan understood full well, by his voice 
and manner, that a tale was coming. The 
newcomers, who were with us on a visit 
to the Haver place, followed our lead, 
and listened. 

“Well, gents, I’ll tell you why old 
Skookum, that blind horse out there, is 
the best treated critter in the country. 
It’s because Bob Haver, his owner and 
master, thinks a lot of hm. And let me 
tell you, Bob has plenty of cause to feel 
that way.” 


129 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


Uncle Dan dropped his lank frame to 
a sitting position on the edge of the step, 
motioning the rest of us to the rawhide- 
bottom chairs that were scattered pro- 
miscuously on the broad, low-roofed 
veranda of the rambling house. 

“Bob hasn’t always manifested such 
kindly feelin’s toward old Skookum,” 
Uncle Dan declared. “A few years ago, 
when Bob first came into possession of this 
ranch, he had an interest in a stage-line. 
Before the days of the motor-car and the 
motor-truck, hoss-stages were a good 
thing — mostly. This stage-line between 
Dufur and Red Oak was one of the real 
good ones. Old Skookum was a stage- 
hoss, and a mighty good one. I’ll guess 
he’s traveled enough miles, back and forth 
over the Bristleback route, to have taken 
him several times round the world. Any- 
how, he wore himself out at it. Blind as 
he was, he knew every foot of the road. 
The stage-drivers used to say that old 
Skookum could have been turned loose 
anywhere on the line and he would have 
made his way, unaided, to the nearest 

130 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


relay station. But the best hosses will 
finally wear out. And the day came when 
old Skookum made his last trip with the 
stage. He was turned back to the ranch, 
and a younger animal put in his place. In 
the language of the old-time drivers, Skoo- 
kum was ‘ relegated to the boneyard.’ 
Poor old critter! He actually seemed to 
feel the disgrace of havin’ to quit. He 
appeared to know that he had reached his 
limit — that he could no longer hold the 
pace for the reg’lar run over the route. 

“What made it worse for ’im, young 
Bob considered the worn-out stager as 
just so much useless material. He didn’t 
take into account how much old Skookum 
had earned for him during the years of 
hard service. Nor did he calkilate that, 
on the basis of such count, old Skookum 
deserved a pension. No, Bob was young 
then, as I’ve said, and given more to 
hard-cash figurin’. He actually wanted to 
turn that faithful old hoss out on the range, 
to shift a livin’ off the bunchgrass. I was 
foreman here then, as I am now, and I 
said: ‘No, sir-ee! Old Skookum doesn’t 

131 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


go on the range — not while I’m boss! An’ 
Skookum didn’t, though the worn-out 
stager was restless and uneasy. He would 
wander away, blind as he was, and mean- 
der aimlessly up and down the road. It 
was almost pitiful. If not doin’ that, he 
would seek a secluded comer, drop his 
head and mourn. For days at a stretch 
we didn’t see the old hoss, though we 
heard of him often. 

“ Winter struck us so quick and hard 
that November it almost took our breath. 
It came on with a stiff blow, straight from 
the north, and the thermometer dropped 
to the bottom of the tube in quicker time 
than you could count twenty-three. It 
caught us with several things to do, or 
that hadn’t been done, and which, because 
of the blow, had to be done mighty quick. 
For one thing, there was a small bunch of 
yearlin’s up under the ridge, that had to 
be made secure in the feedin’-shed. Bob 
said he would go up and see to ’em. I 
didn’t object, for I had a-plenty to keep 
me busy. But, busy as I was, I thought 
of old Skookum, out somewhere in the 

132 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


growin' storm — wanderin' aimlessly, 
blindly about. 

“ ‘Say, Bob,' I called, just as he 
started out, ‘do you think there's a chance 
that Skookum is outside — " 

“ ‘Don't bother me about that old, 
worn-out skate!' Bob snapped in return. 
‘I haven't time to think about him.' 

“ Before I had a chance to answer, an' 
to speak my mind, Bob was gone. That 
howlin', dense swirl of bio win' snow soon 
enveloped him. Oh, how that gale did 
blow! It swept over the ridge with the 
force of a hurricane, shrieking down upon 
the ranch like a thousand demons. 
Though I had trouble a-plenty lookin' 
after the stray stock near the corrals, it 
turned out that Bob had a much tougher 
time. Up on the slope, where the blizzard 
had an open sweep, he was buffeted and 
tossed, willy-nilly. Gropin', feelin', push- 
in' head down, he managed, by goin' a 
foot at a time, to finally reach the feedin'- 
shed under the bluff. Luckily, the year- 
lin's were all inside, and there was enough 
hay stored to last for a month. Bob threw 

133 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


down a lot of it into the racks, warmed 
himself, and started back, 

“The trip back proved even more un- 
certain and difficult than had that to the 
bluff. The gale had increased, and the 
cold was more severe. The snow bit like 
powdered steel at Bob’s exposed cheeks. 
He could see less than a yard in any 
direction. He had wisely figgered on just 
such trouble, and, havin’ found a ball of 
cord in the feedin’-shed, unwound this as 
he proceeded. He knew it would at least 
help him get back to the shed in case he 
got hopelessly lost, or found himself un- 
able to proceed. 

“He had gone less than two hundred 
yards from the shed when the gale caught 
him unawares in one of its shrieking 
gusts, and lifted him off his feet. In his 
efforts to keep from being blown down 
the bluff, he reached his mittened hands 
for something to grasp — and the ball of 
cord went flying, disappearing at once in 
the blinding swirl. 

“Gasping, struggling, Bob searched 
awhile for the cord, but could not find it, 

134 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


then started on, taking a direction that 
he believed would bring him out at the 
ranch gate. With the blizzard buffetin’ 
him around, and his whole body be- 
numbed, he soon became hopelessly con- 
fused. Had he been dropped into the mid- 
dle of the Sahara Desert, with a sand- 
storm bio win’ round him, Bob Haver could 
not have been any more helpless. When- 
ever he came upon a clump of sagebrush, 
or a chaparral-bush, he would pull a twig 
and hold it near his eyes, in a vain at- 
tempt to find something familiar. That 
little distance of a quarter of a mile, be- 
tween the bluff and the corrals, which any 
of you could walk right now in five min- 
utes’ time, became a stretch of a thou- 
sand perils, uncertain and mysterious. 

“Realizing that he was lost, and fear- 
ful that he might perish before he could 
get back to the gate, Bob shouted and 
yelled. I was so busy with my own trou- 
bles just then that I didn’t hear him. 
Nor was there any one else within reach 
of his shouts. In. fact, Bob’s cries were 
smothered by the shrieks and howls of 

135 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


the blizzard, and went nowhere. Stum- 
blin' and scramblin', he kept movin', 
knowin' he would certainly freeze if he 
stood still for any length of time. Every 
little distance, or every little while, he 
made a trumpet of his mittened hands 
and yelled. 

“An' finally, as if in response to his 
call, there appeared from out of the 
blindin' swirl a gaunt shape, which Bob 
took at first glance for an apparition. It 
loomed directly over 'im, and stretched 
a long neck and quiverin' nose into his 
face. Bob felt a warm breath against his 
cheek, and when he took a better look 
he saw what it was that had come to 
him. 

“ ‘Skookum! Skookum! Dear old 
Skookum!' he cried in a glad, muffled 
voice, as he lifted his arms and clasped 
them about the lean neck. As if he under- 
stood the plight of his young master, and 
forgetting many things that must have 
weighed on his heart, the old stager put 
a quivering nostril to Bob's cheek again 
and whinnied lowly. 

136 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


“ ‘Skookum — old man — I’m lost!’ con- 
fessed Bob. ‘I’m lost — and you must show 
me the way — ’ 

“That blind hoss whinnied again, as if 
he knew, striking out at once. Bob seized 
his tail, and hung on with all his strength. 
He knew full well that, if he let go, his 
last chance would be gone. ‘Gro, Skoo- 
kum! Gro!’ he kept urging, and the blind 
hoss, his head ducked to the howling gale, 
led unerringly by that strange sixth sense 
of his, kept going, going. 

“I had finished my work, and, think- 
in’ of Bob, started out afoot in the direc- 
tion of the bluff. I hadn’t gone far when 
I plumped head-on into old Skookum. 
He was plowin’ straight for the gate. I 
seized him by the mane, and gave ’im a 
hearty slap on the neck. ‘Skookum, old 
boy,’ I shouted, ‘you’re headed straight 
for home, all right, all right; but where’s 
Bob? — ’ 

“ ‘Here I am, Dan — here I am!’ an- 
swered Bob from the rear. ‘I’ve got a 
tail hold on Skookum, and I don’t intend 
to let go!’ 


137 


SKOOKUM AND THE BLIZZARD 


“Nor did he let go till he was safe 
inside the corral. Then he stumbled over 
toward the house, callin’ to me as he 
went: ‘Say, Dan, put old Skookum in the 
bam — at once. Give ’im the warmest 
stall — an’ the best feed. See that he’s 
taken care of proper. He’s blind — but he 
can see better than I can — an’ he has 
more sense in a minute than I have in a 
week!” 


188 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEE- 
ZOOKS 

H IS real name was Buck Keezer, but 
to every boy, and to most grown 
folks in the Red Hills community, he was 
known as “Old Skeezooks.” Seldom was 
the nickname spoken in a tone of kind- 
ness. The truth must be told that Buck 
Keezer, or “Old Skeezooks,” whichever 
you please, had few friends. Certainly, 
he had very few among the boys of the 
neighborhood. And he might have num- 
bered them by the score. For the biggest 
and best patches of wild strawberries to 
be found anywhere in the district grew 
on Buck’s ranch. So did the best black- 
berries and the best hazelnuts. But for 
any one to trespass upon the sacred and 
forbidden premises of Buck Keezer was 
to invite the wrath of the crusty rancher. 

“You’d think ‘Old Skeezooks’ would 
have something else than a stone for a 

139 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


heart — just for the sake of Billy — now, 
wouldn’t you?” queried Don Medley. 

“ Stone!” retorted Bob Frazer. “Why 
credit Buck with having a heart of stone? 
It’s more like an icicle — frozen so hard 
nothing can melt it.” 

“Something will happen one of these 
days to warm it a degree or two,” brought 
in Tom Hooper. “He can’t go on and on 
making himself a sort of kaiser over his 
domain without suffering for it. Just 
wait awhile.” 

Mounted on their skis, the three boys 
were on their way toward Baldpate, a 
barren, treeless butte that lifted its domed 
top beyond the border-line of Buck 
Keezer’s place. The night previous had 
brought the first good skiing snow of the 
winter, and the chums wanted to make 
the best of it. Anticipating just such a 
day of sport, they had made their skis and 
ski-poles ready the day before. Billy 
Keezer, the adopted son of Buck, and who 
was as much unlike his foster father as 
any boy could be, had invited the trio to 
Baldpate. The butte was not a part of 

140 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


the rancher’s holdings, and the boys 
feared no trouble from him. 

But when they reached the lower gate 
to the Keezer ranch, where they were 
given the choice of either crossing a por- 
tion of the open pasture or driving down 
through a deep gulch densely grown to 
hazel thicket, wild plum and vine maple, 
the three paused to consider. Smooth 
and glittering as lay the crusted snow, it 
had been a hard, up-hill pull all the way 
from town. By going in through Buck’s 
gate, and taking a short cut across the 
pasture, they would have an easy route 
the remaining distance to Baldpate. To 
wallow down into the deep gulch, through 
the bushy tangle, would require an extra 
hour or more of the toughest sort of going. 

“ Let’s take the pasture,” Tom sug- 
gested. “ What’s the harm? We can 
climb over the fence, and not touch the 
gate. We wouldn’t do the least injury to 
Buck by taking this route.” 

“He has a trespass notice up just the 
same,” reminded Bob. “Which is reason 
a-plenty for ‘Old Skeezooks’ firing us off.” 

141 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


“We’ll get across before he has time 
to come down here/’ declared Don, who 
was already pulling himself over the stone 
fence. “ Billy hinted that we might come 
this way — and save hard work and time. 
Come on, fellows! Let’s be wise and 
make tracks for the other side while the 
tracking is good.” 

In a moment all three were over the 
fence and following Don’s lead. The 
broad pasture, a wide spread of glinting 
white, sloped gently from the ranch- 
house to the road. The boys hoped, by 
keeping well down toward the lower 
border, to reach the opposite corner un- 
observed. But they had gone less than 
a hundred yards when the unexpected 
happened. A man on snow-shoes webbed 
out from the shadow of a fir grove near 
the fence, and appeared before them. He 
was a big man, whose huge boots and 
heavy mackinaw added to his weight and 
stature. But more menacing was the 
scowl that clouded his bronzed face. It 
required only a glimpse for the youths 
to see that the man who now loomed 

142 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


before them was none other than “Old 
Skeezooks.” 

“Turn back, and git out o’ here!” 
ordered Buck. “You are trespassin’ on 
my land. Didn’t you see the notice down 
by the gate?” He waved his heavy stick 
threateningly. 

The three youths were taken com- 
pletely by surprise. For a moment they 
stood and stared speechlessly. Don was 
the first to find his voice. “We meant 
no harm, Mr. Keezer,” he protested. 
“Billy will be waiting for us, over on 
Baldpate — and as it is much closer, by 
taking a short cut across the pasture — ” 

“It makes no difference!” interjected 
the unreasoning Buck. “You’re tres- 
passin’ on my land — an’ I don’t allow it! 
Turn back and git out, all of you!” 

“It will be mighty tough going, down 
through the gulch,” brought in Tom, in 
pleading tones. “If you’ll let us cross 
this one time — ” 

“Turn back and git out, I tell you!” 
Old Buck advanced a few paces nearer, 
swinging his stick. “I don’t care which 

10 143 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


way you have to go, as long as you’re 
off my land.” 

Muttering their feelings of indigna- 
tion, and in anything but a pleasant mood, 
the three turned back and climbed over 
the fence. “The old scalawag must 
have known we were coming, and laid 
in wait for us,” declared Don in a bitter 
tone. 

“Sure he did!” Tom agreed. “Noth- 
ing pleases ‘Old Skeezooks’ more than 
the chance to be mean. Billy probably 
dropped a word or two, which was enough 
to put him wise to our coming. Chances 
are he won’t let Billy come out to Bald- 
pate at all.” 

“Shall we go on?” Don had headed 
toward the gulch, but halted and looked 
at his companions. 

“Sure — we’ll go on!” the other two 
chorused. “We will have our fun, even 
though Billy can’t join us.” 

“Fancy having to live under the same 
roof with such an old crust as that!” 
exclaimed Don. “Life must be anything 
but a picnic for Billy. Well, here goes!” 

144 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


They dived into the bramble-grown, 
snow-piled hollow. For more than an 
hour they wallowed and scrambled. They 
were obliged to unstrap their skis and 
plunge willy-nilly through the growth. 
At times they dropped to their necks 
through the mesh of briars and the drifted 
snow. There was no path or trail — no 
open way anywhere. The descent of the 
gulch wall was bad enough, but the 
climb out was torment. Whenever they 
halted, to catch their breath, or to assist 
one another, they muttered maledictions 
upon the head of Buck Keezer. Truly, 
the ears of “Old Skeezooks” must have 
burned as he went back to the ranch. 

When they finally got through, and 
reached the open ground beyond the 
gulch, they were in a sorry plight. Mit- 
tens and mackinaws were torn, exposed 
cheeks scratched and bleeding. Don had 
ripped one legging from top to bottom; 
Bob had lost his ski-pole. They were 
mad enough to have set fire to the whole 
Keezer ranch. But, mad as they were, 
they were fully determined to go on, 

145 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


and make the best of the day’s sport. 
They would return to town by the oppo- 
site road and trail, though it meant a 
long journey round. 

Keeping just outside the stone fence, 
they followed the ranch border-line to a 
point within a short quarter-mile of the 
house. Here they would have veered 
their course over a low ridge, but were 
brought to a stop by a hoarse cry. Look- 
ing over in the direction of the house, 
they saw Buck Keezer coming toward 
them. He was waving his arms, and 
yelling: “Hold on! Hold a minute!” 

“He must want us to wait here till he 
gets near enough to fire us off again,” 
Don remarked. 

“He can’t fire us,” brought in Tom. 
“We’re not on his land.” 

“I wonder what the old scallawag 
has on his mind now,” mused Bob. “Why 
should we bother ourselves with him? 
He was mean enough to order us off his 
place, and force us down into that bram- 
ble-filled, snow-piled gulch. I’m for 
going on — ” 


140 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


“No — listen!” demanded Don. “He’s 
telling us something. There must be 
trouble of some sort up at the house.” 

By this time old Buck had webbed 
down to within a few yards of the fence. 
He was near enough for the boys to de- 
tect the change that had come upon his 
weather-bronzed face. The scowl was re- 
placed with a look of alarm and anxiety. 
“Billy is badly hurt!” he spoke hoarsely. 
“Cut his foot with an ax — is bleeding 
awful — must have help quick. I’m won- 
derin’ if you boys — ” 

“Sure!” responded the three in chorus. 
“This way, fellows,” called Don, as he 
bounded over the fence. “We must help 
Billy.” Whatever ill feelings they held 
against “Old Skezooks” were forgotten 
in their united desire to help the ranch- 
er’s adopted son. For they knew Billy 
to be true blue. 

With all the speed possible, and lim- 
ited only by their endurance and ability, 
they made the ascent of the slope. Old 
Buck, wheezing and gasping, followed 
well in the rear. He was still far behind 


147 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


when the three boys went in through the 
gate. A white-faced woman beckoned to 
them from the porch. Slinging off their 
skis at the step, the boys went in, and 
were directed to a cot in the living-room, 
where a big fire burned in the deep fire- 
place. Billy lay on the cot, his injured 
foot extended and bleeding profusely, 
even through the mass of bandage that 
had been hurriedly and unskillfully 
wrapped around it. 

“ Cloth — water — everything for a tour- 
niquet, fellows !” Don directed in a calm 
voice, as he jerked off his sweater and 
rolled up his sleeves. His companions 
did likewise. Then he spoke to Billy: 
“Lie easy, old man — easy. Well soon 
fix this hurt.” 

It proved a bad cut — a deep gash 
opened by the sharp blade of the ax, 
which severed an artery on the ball of 
the foot. And it was well for Billy 
Keezer that these three youths who had 
rushed to the rescue were trained in first 
aid. Mrs. Keezer could do little more 
than rush around aimlessly, wringing her 

148 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


hands. Old Buck himself was of little 
better service. By the time the rancher 
came in, puffing and blowing, Don and 
his capable helpers had the flow of blood 
staunched, and were dressing the wound 
preparatory to applying a bandage. 

“We must get a doctor — get a doc- 
tor!” gasped Buck. 

“It is a case for a doctor — and a 
good one,” Don agreed. “This tourni- 
quet will hold for a time, but ought to 
be removed as soon as possible. I think 
the better way would be for us to carry 
Billy down the slope to the main road, 
where a rig can reach him. That will be 
much quicker than getting a doctor up 
here.” He was looking at his compan- 
ions as he spoke. All nodded agreement. 

“How can you take him down?” old 
Buck asked dubiously. 

“Leave the job to us; well manage 
it,” assured Don. “Eh, Billy?” 

“You fellows are good enough doctors 
for me,” smiled the injured one. 

“We want a strip of wide, strong can- 
vas, or a blanket, with which to make a 

149 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


stretcher,” Don said to Mrs. Keezer. 
“Then other warm blankets for cover- 
ing. Tom and Bob will get stretcher- 
poles.” 

For the first time in all their experi- 
ence, the boys saw a smile on the face 
of old Buck. He tramped out with Bob 
and Tom, showing the way to the wood- 
shed. Old Buck was still smiling and 
mumbling words of gratitude when the 
three capable youths, mounted on their 
skis, and carefully bearing the stretcher 
on which the injured Billy lay, started 
down the slope. 

“This way, lads — this way,” directed 
the rancher, pointing in the direction of 
the lower gate. It was the same way 
over which old Buck had forbidden the 
three boys to pass only a short time 
before. 

“This route is open to you boys now,” 
smiled Buck, his voice sounding a strange 
note of mingled apology and gratitude. 
“From now on, you can cross this pasture 
as often as you please. I never knew 
that boys could be so handy.” 

150 


THE MELTING OF OLD SKEEZOOKS 


So the pasture route was followed to 
the main road, where a rig was called 
and carried Billy the remaining distance 
to the doctor’s office. Though Don, Bob 
and Tom were denied their sport on 
Baldpate for that day, there were other 
days coming when they got a full meas- 
ure of frolic and fun — days, too, in other 
seasons, when the strawberry patches, the 
hazel thickets and the melon-field are 
opened to them freely. Now, when the 
boys speak the nickname of Buck Keezer, 
they give it with a far different meaning 
and tone, “Good old Skeezooks!” 


151 



THE BUCKSKIN COAT 

CHAPTER ONE. 

T HEY clinched. They fought madly 
back and forth in the cabin of Jude 
Kiger. They broke down the bunk, and 
trampled it underfoot. They upset the 
table, and scattered the tin dishes over 
the plank floor. Finally, in a desperate 
struggle, the two youths, close -locked, 
rolled across the hearth into the fire- 
place, which, luckily, contained nothing 
but dead coals, ashes and a greasy frying- 
pan. 

Hoxie Morris, the youthful deputy 
sheriff, seized the frying-pan and settled 
the dark-skinned half-breed. Then he 
got weakly to his feet, panting like a 
fagged dog, and sank exhausted on a 
cracker-box, the one piece of furniture 
in the cabin that had not been wrecked 
during the fracas. Here he got his wind, 

153 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


and waited Jude Kiger’s return to con- 
sciousness. 

Before a great while, Jude rose awk- 
wardly, and, leaning against the rough 
mantelpiece, glared at the young deputy 
through swollen eyes. “1 want my coat!” 
he demanded. “You’ve got my buckskin 
coat!” 

“Yes, I have a buckskin coat here,” 
remarked Hoxie, holding up a limp, 
leather garment, considerably worn, but 
which, in spite of its age, still looked 
gaudy in its many tassels and beads. 
“I stripped this coat off your back early 
in our little mix-up,” the deputy added. 
“This is the first time I have ever seen 
you that you did not have it on.” 

“Gimme my coat!” the half-breed 
again demanded, most insistently. When 
he reached for the buckskin garment, 
Hoxie jerked it away. 

“You keep your boots on,” Hoxie 
advised. “I have not gone to all this 
trouble of getting the coat merely to 
return it to you. Nor am I sure the 
coat is your property.” 

154 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“Do you call me a thief?” Jude bel- 
lowed, bending forward menacingly, as if 
he would pounce upon the young deputy 
again. 

“No, I'm not calling you a thief,” 
answered Hoxie, calmly. “I merely 
said I have very good reason to believe 
that this buckskin coat does not belong 
to you. That was why I came over to 
get it. As an officer of the law, sworn 
to do my duty, I demanded it of you 
kindly. When you refused to let me 
have it, I proceeded to take it by force. 
I will now convey it to the one to whom 
1 think it rightfully belongs — ” 

“Aw — you can't bluff me!” Jude 
Kiger exclaimed. “It's my coat. It 
was given to me a long time ago — and 
I intend to keep it. Anyhow, what value 
is it to you — or to anybody else? 

Jude's questions were a plain chal- 
lenge. Nor was the deputy slow in 
making a response. Straightway he 
turned the coat wrong side out, spreading 
the inner lining across his knees. “This 
is what I know about it,” he remarked. 

155 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“This peculiar design worked into this 
lining is a map. That long, crooked 
mark, made with silk thread, is a river, 
and this other one, connecting with it, 
is a creek. That ornamental line, made 
with beads, represents a mountain range. 
This circle, near the center, shows the 
location of an old-time placer diggings, 
and the dot near by is a reservoir — a 
broken sluice connects it with — ” 

“Who told you all that I’ ’ bellowed the 
half-breed again, making another reach 
for the coat, but again finding it jerked 
beyond his grasp. 

“Listen to me a minute, Jude Kiger,” 
demanded Hoxie, sternly, as he thrust a 
finger close to the half -breed’s glaring 
eyes. “Let’s talk like a pair of rational 
human beings. I have this coat now, and, 
as an officer, I can hold it till its owner- 
ship is properly proved. Also, as you now 
realize, I do know something about it. 
I know why you have guarded it so care- 
fully — wearing it day and night, and 
never letting its inner lining be seen by 
any eyes other than your own. A lot of 

156 



157 




THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


folks have wondered why you never al- 
lowed yourself to be separated from this 
old garment, and not till a few days ago 
did I find out — ” 

“Who told you about it?” Jude 
wanted to know. 

“I’ll tell you straight — and without 
any quibbling,” returned Hoxie. “It 
was Kutch Cober.” 

“What! You don’t mean that little, 
crippled shrimp — ” 

“I mean that fine boy with the crooked 
foot,” said the young deputy. “Though 
he is a cripple, he is 100 per cent, pure, 
and during the few days that he has 
been in this town I’ve learned — ” 

“That kid has been stuffin’ you!” ex- 
claimed the half-breed. 

“That’s a matter for me to determine 
— or to pass upon,” said Hoxie. “Any- 
how, the information he has given me 
has a peculiar way of proving itself. And, 
to settle this question of who owns the 
buckskin coat, we are going at once to 
see Kutch Cober.” The deputy started 
toward the door. 


158 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“Hold a second/ ’ demanded Jude. 
“Mebbe that kid does know something 
about this old rag. But, before we go 
over and have this confab with ’im, I 
want to know what’s your lay. Does he 
know the country marked by this map? 
And if he goes to find the stuff — ” 

“What do you mean by the stuff?” 
Hoxie cut in. 

“The lost gold, of course,” Jude an- 
swered. 

The deputy smiled. “If you will 
promise to keep rational, we’ll talk those 
matters over with Kutch Cober,” Hoxie 
replied, leading the way out. 

Across the mining town, sheltered by 
a grove of laurels they found the cabin 
of Gus Mason. Old Gus was a drill- 
sharpener, and worked in the mines 
during the day shift. He was on duty, 
so Kutch, who kept care of the shanty, 
was alone. 

The crippled youth was seated on 
the edge of a bunk, reading a book, when 
the two callers entered. He dropped 
the book, and, half raising himself, met 

159 


11 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


with unflinching gaze the menacing, 
wicked stare of the half-breed. There 
were no introductions. Evidently, Jude 
Kiger and Kutch Cober had met before. 
Kutch threw a keen, satisfying glance 
in the direction of Hoxie, taking quick 
note of the buckskin coat the deputy 
carried. Then he began to talk. 

“I’ve been all over Nevada and a 
good portion of California, trying to get 
you located, Jude Kiger,” informed the 
crippled boy. “Traveling is slow with 
me — and mighty hard — especially since 
I got that bad fall on the Feather River 
dredge. As you may guess, it is this 
buckskin coat I’ve wanted. But not till 
I arrived in this camp did I find any one 
who would listen to my story or give me 
any help. This one is Hoxie Morris, the 
sheriff’s son. He is true blue, all right, 
and — ” 

“Never mind the eulogy stuff now, 
Kutch,” said Hoxie, good-naturedly. 

“Well, as you know, Jude, this coat 
belonged to my father,” Kutch resumed. 
“He was the one who worked the peculiar 
160 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


map into the lining. It represents an 
old diggings that he and your dad worked 
in the days before you and I were born. 
Seems as if the two made a rich strike 
in those particular diggings; but about 
the time they had all the gold cleaned 
from the sluices, they were driven out 
by an attacking horde of savages. They 
made their escape, after caching the gold, 
but were never able to return. My father 
made a map of the diggings as he re- 
membered, and while the details of the 
place were still fresh in his mind. This 
map was worked into the inner lining 
of his buckskin coat. Later on, he en- 
trusted this coat to your father, who had 
married an Indian woman. He never 
saw the coat again, though he told me 
about it when I was old enough to un- 
derstand — describing it so well that I 
knew I would recognize it the moment 
I saw it. And the first day I glimpsed 
you, down in Feather River — ” 

‘ ‘ What’s all this ancient history got 
to do with the question of who owns the 
coat?” Jude demanded impatiently. “If 
161 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


my dad gave it to me, I can’t see but that 
it’s mine, or as much mine as anybody’s. 
And, since nobody knows anything about 
what this old coat means — where the old 
diggings are — or anything about the 
country where our dads worked as pard- 
ners, I can’t see but that the coat had just 
as well belong to me as to any one.” 

“ There happens to be a person who 
does know about those old diggings,” in- 
formed Kutch. As the cripple spoke he 
turned his gaze toward Hoxie. 

Quick understanding came to Jude 
Kiger. He, too, looked in the deputy’s 
direction. “Then it’s you, is it, who 
knows about the old diggings?” he asked 
skeptically. “Tell us what you know, 
an’ be quick about it.” 

“Keep your boots on,” Hoxie advised 
again. “I said we would talk this thing 
over rationally. I happen to know some- 
thing about this affair, but before I make 
any revelation, and to protect the inter- 
ests of all concerned, I want to make defi- 
nite terms. If it should happen, after a 
search is made, in which the three of us 
162 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


engage, that the gold is found, how much 
of the treasure would you claim ?” 

“Half of it!” answered Jude, with 
greedy promptness. 

“Then we won’t find it,” answered 
the deputy. “There will be three of us in 
on this deal, and if you will allow me to 
be plain, Jude Kiger, it is only our desire 
to be more than fair that we let you in at 
all. If the thing was put to a test, it is 
doubtful if you could prove any claim to 
the coat. But Kutch himself has asked 
that you be let in on the division of the 
gold if any gold is found, share and share 
alike.” 

“Well, all right,” the half-breed youth 
agreed reluctantly. “A three-thirds cut 
goes. But first tell me what you know 
about this map — or about the old dig- 
gin’s.” 

Hoxie spread the old coat on his knees 
again, inside out, revealing the faded 
lines of the peculiar chart. “This line 
here is Klamath River,” he said, pointing 
it out. “This other smaller line is Thomp- 
son Creek. This mountain range is the 

163 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


Siskiyous — all on the California side of 
the divide. I know, because I’ve been 
over there. It happened that I was up 
there, with my father, looking for a gang 
of sluice thieves, and one day, while 
thirsty and wanting water, I heard a 
spring trickling through the growth. I 
got off my horse and crawled in to get a 
drink. When I raised up and looked 
round I saw I was inside an old stone 
reservoir — an old miner’s reservoir, built 
years and years ago. We knew, then, it 
was a site of an old diggings — ” 

6 i Sure! Sure!” shouted Jude Kiger, 
in sudden enthusiasm. “You found it all 
right. Dad would never tell me anything 
about it; but I did hear him say somethin’ 
once about it’s being in the Siskiyous. 
Let’s hit the trail at once.” 

Now that the mystery of the faded 
chart in the lining of the buckskin coat 
had been revealed — or explained — Jude 
Kiger was impatient to complete the un- 
raveling of the tangle. He did not want 
to wait till Hoxie made final arrange- 
ments, and planned the details of the pro- 

164 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


posed treasure hunt with the cripple. He 
was out of the shanty and gone while 
Hoxie and Kutch were still talking the 
matter over. 

“It will pay us to keep an eye on that 
dark-skinned individual/ ’ Kutch re- 
marked cautiously, throwing a glance in 
the direction of the door. 

“It isn’t necessary for you to tell me 
that/’ the young deputy answered. “I 
know his sort — and I don’t intend to be 
overlax with him. We’re going to play 
this game fair, Kutch, you can depend on 
that.” 


165 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


CHAPTER TWO. 

B EFORE sunrise that October morning, 
the three treasure-hunters struck the 
high trails for the Siskiyous. Their outfit 
consisted of one cayuse to carry the pack, 
and another for the crippled Kutch to 
ride. Hoxie and Jude walked. It was a 
two days’ uneventful trip to the first high 
peaks. Though the trail still proved fair 
going for the cayuses, something hap- 
pened on the third night that put both 
ponies out of business, for a time at least. 

On the fourth morning the pair of 
hardy little beasts were not able to rise. 
Evidently both had eaten something, 
while tethered, that poisoned them. 

“ Mountain loco weed,” spoke Jude 
Kiger, knowingly. “ There’s quite a bit 
of the stuff up here. It will be four or 
five days — mebbe longer — before these 
critters can take the trail.” 


166 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“That will be a long time to wait,” 
said Hoxie, in a tone of impatience. 

“Sure, it’s a long time to wait,” Jude 
promptly agreed. Then he suggested: “I 
don’t see that there’s any use of all of us 
waitin’ here that long. According to the 
lay-out you’ve made we’re not more than 
a day’s hike from the head of Thompson 
Creek. Why not let Kutch stay here 
with the ponies, while you and I go on? 
If we find the stuff, we’ll come back this 
way, and make the divvy just the same. 
If the ponies get well in a day or so, 
Kutch can come on and find us. He 
won’t have much trouble following our 
trail.” 

With this suggestion from Jude, Hoxie 
and Kutch exchanged questioning glances. 
Each was thinking of the word of caution 
that passed between them before leaving 
the lower camp. Yet there seemed noth- 
ing in this proposal of the half-breed to 
arouse suspicion. 

“Go ahead, Hoxie,” the crippled 
youth urged. “I’ll stay here with the 
cayuses. We may save valuable time by 

167 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


your going on at once. Anyhow, I may 
be able to follow in a day or so.” 

That settled it. The outfit was re- 
divided and newly distributed. Hoxie 
and Jude, loaded with all they could easily 
carry, resumed the upward climb of the 
mountain trail. The going was hard. For 
long, wearisome stretches they stumbled 
over boulders of a creek-bed, where the 
benches and bars were stripped of bed- 
rock. For they were now in the early 
diggings region. The crumbling sluices 
and broken conduits gave mute evidence 
of a time when the hard Argonauts of the 
long ago swarmed the district and cradled 
the gold from the rich gravel. 

The way grew steeper and more 
rugged. Though late October, the Cali- 
fornia sun burned hot upon their backs, 
and the two youths sweltered under their 
galling burdens. Night found them on 
Thompson Creek, with the purple ranges 
of the Sisldyous piled around them in end- 
less array. Tired and fagged, they sank 
exhausted on the cool grass, by the creek’s 
brink. 


168 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


After a rest, they began work making 
camp for the night. Jude unstrapped 
the packs and got out the grub, while 
Hoxie built a fire and prepared an appe- 
tizing supper of fried bacon, flapjacks 
and steaming coffee. They were at an 
altitude of five thousand feet, and the sun 
had no sooner dropped behind the range 
than an icy breath blew down from the 
high peaks, bringing a tang of frost and a 
suggestion of approaching snow. 

Soon after the meal was eaten, and the 
tin dishes washed and laid by, the treas- 
ure-hunters rolled up in their blankets, 
with Hoxie on one side of the camp-fire, 
Jude on the other. They were not very 
talkative. In truth, the half-breed was 
never voluble, and all day, what with the 
heat and the hard going, he spoke less 
than a dozen words. 

Hoxie did not go at once to sleep, in 
spite of his dog-tiredness. He lay awake 
a full hour or longer after the long-drawn 
breathing that came from beyond the 
smoldering fire assured him that Jude was 
asleep. For one thing, he was absorbed 

169 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


by the deep and silent mystery of the 
mountains. And while he lay there, look- 
ing up into the velvety darkness, with the 
stars shining so brilliantly and closely 
overhead that it seemed he could almost 
reach up and pluck them, he kept think- 
ing of Kutch — crippled little Kutch down 
there on the lower trail. Yes, he was 
thinking of something else. An uneasy 
sense of foreboding, coupled with a lurk- 
ing suspicion, had come into his mind. 
He had been thinking about those cayuses 
— or about the mysterious “sickness” 
that struck them so unexpectedly — 

Just then Jude groaned in his sleep 
and turned over. A wood-owl hooted from 
a mountain hemlock. Away off across the 
canyon a timber-wolf howled and wailed 
in a mournful key. Before Hoxie knew 
it he fell asleep. 

Late in the night he awoke. He was 
not aware of the least disturbance, yet he 
found himself sitting on his blanket, his 
eyes wide open and staring. He was at 
a loss to know the cause of his sudden 
waking. The fire had died to a bed of 

170 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


glowing coals, and on the farther border 
of the dull-glowing circle he saw Jude 
Kiger. The other youth was also sitting 
up. This of itself was not so surprising, 
for he, too, might have been aroused by 
the same mysterious sound that woke 
Hoxie. 

But after a brief glance the young 
deputy observed that the young half- 
breed had a rifle drawn across his knees 
— the one rifle they had brought with 
them. And this rifle belonged to Hoxie. 
When Hoxie went to sleep, that rifle lay 
close to his hand, at the edge of his 
blankets. 

“ What’s wrong ¥” Hoxie asked blunt- 
ly. “What are you doing with my rifle ¥” 
The dark-skinned youth did not reply 
at once. The young deputy caught the 
wicked glow of those jet-black eyes. “I 
thought I heard somethin’ prowlin’ 
round,” Jude finally answered, shifting 
his gaze into the darkness. “It may be 
a cougar — I don’t know — an’ — ” 

“Let me have the gun,” Hoxie de- 
manded. “If there’s any shooting to be 

171 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


done, I’ll do it. Why didn’t you wake 
me?” 

“I didn’t like to bother you,” Jude 
said, handing the rifle across. 

Though he sat and listened intently 
for several minutes, Hoxie could hear no 
disturbing sound. He got up and stalked 
around the camp. Still he could hear 
or see nothing to cause alarm. When he 
returned to his blanket he found Jude 
sitting up, and he had been conscious all 
the while that the half-breed’s eyes were 
following him. Somehow, the young 
deputy’s sense of uneasiness grew — and 
likewise increased that lurking suspicion. 
He sat on the edge of his blanket till he 
was sure Jude was again asleep. And 
now, when he rolled up in his own, he 
kept a hand on his rifle. 

They were up early that morning, and 
ate breakfast in silence. The sun had 
barely touched the frost-nipped leaves of 
the mountain-laurels when the two were 
on their way up Thompson Creek. There 
was now no sign of a trail, and in time 
the creek, having been followed to its 

172 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


fountainhead under the high bluffs, 
petered out. Nothing remained but a dry 
gulch bottom. The treasure-hunters fol- 
lowed this, climbing up, up toward the 
summit of the divide. 

The only halts they made were to rest, 
and for Hoxie to consult the inner lining 
of the buckskin coat. On the first part of 
the journey the young deputy kept the 
coat on his back, but now he carried it as 
a part of the pack. The night before, he 
slept with it under his pillow, guarding it 
even more jealously than he guarded his 
rifle. Hoxie ’s aim was to connect this 
wild, untrammeled region with the mys- 
terious country shown by the faded chart. 
And something told him that this was 
proving true. Anyhow, he knew this to 
be the same region into which he had 
come with his father over two years 
before. 

As they climbed nearer the high divide 
of the range, the heavy timber disap- 
peared. Even the hemlocks were gnarled 
and stunted, the cinnamon brush twisted, 
and the chaparral densely matted. The 

173 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


youths tramped across long stretches of 
broken slate and loose shale. Surmount- 
ing a steep slope of this, which proved the 
hardest going of the trip, they came out 
on a wide bench near the summit of the 
range. This bench was scooped and hol- 
lowed like an abandoned quarry. 

Again Hoxie consulted the buckskin 
chart. This time a pleased smile lighted 
his bronzed face. 

“Are we close to it — close to the old 
diggings?” Jude wanted to know. 

“We’re getting closer — every little 
while,” Hoxie answered, replacing the old 
coat in the pack and moving on. He 
climbed to the rim of the hollowed-out 
bench to make a careful survey of the 
place. Though cinnamon and chaparral 
covered the ground with a matted growth, 
it was evident that this bench, in other 
days, had been mining diggings. A knoll 
lifted at one end, and at the base of this 
was a clump of green laurels — certain 
indications of water near by. 

As Hoxie looked carefully around, tak- 
ing in the details of the remote district, 

174 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


his eye caught certain landmarks that 
seemed familiar. It dawned upon him 
that he had been on this old bench before 
— with his father — and though he had 
entered it from another direction, he was 
certain that in here, somewhere, he found 
the hidden spring. 

Again he consulted the buckskin map. 
He studied it long and carefully. Twice 
Jude asked bluntly: “Are we gettin’ close 
to the old digging ?” But each time 
the young deputy answered by a slight 
nod. 

“We’re within a short half-mile of the 
Siskiyou backbone,” Hoxie remarked as 
much to himself as to his companion. 
“Down there, at the base of the slope, 
is the Klamath River. The Cheto is much 
farther north; but Thompson Creek and 
the old diggings must be up here — ” 

“If this is the old diggin’s, where is 
the spring, an’ the reservoir?” brought 
in Jude. 

“Keep your boots on!” advised Hoxie, 
in a tone of impatience. “It will take 
awhile to work this puzzle.” 

12 175 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


They climbed higher up the steep 
bank, and slid down the opposite side 
into a shallow basin. Down in here the 
laurels grew thicker, and the brush was 
so dense they had to thresh their way 
through. They halted midway of the 
thicket, and to their listening ears came 
the tinkle of trickling water. 

“ There’s a spring in here!” Jude ex- 
claimed. 

Without comment, Hoxie started for- 
ward. With the pack still on his back, 
and the rifle in his hands, he found the 
going slow and tedious. Yet he threaded 
and threshed through the tangle, till he 
came upon a spring that bubbled out of 
the mossy rocks in the center of the 
basin. Here the two dropped flat on their 
stomachs to drink of the cold, refreshing 
water. 

After drinking his fill, Hoxie lay on 
his back, looking around. He was cer- 
tain this could be none other than the 
same spring from which he and his father 
drank over two years before. But where 
was that old stone wall — or the remains 


176 


Ml 



177 



THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


of the crumbling old wall — he had seen 
then? 

He began cutting away the growth 
with his knife, for the tangle was so 
dense as to prevent anything being seen 
from a greater distance than a few feet. 
After a time he found a pile of stones, 
which, though broken and tumbled, ap- 
peared to have once been lain in regular 
order, like a wall. Further search re- 
vealed the decayed hinge and flange-slot 
of an ancient flume-gate. Then he knew 
for a certainty that this was the inside 
of an old reservoir — the old reservoir that 
had, in the days of long ago, supplied 
water for the diggings of the bench below. 

“What are you pokin’ around in here 
for?” questioned Jude. 

“Do you see these stones — all shaped 
and cut to a uniform size?” returned 
Hoxie. “And do you see that old hinge 
and flange-slot of a broken flume-gate? 
Well, this held water once upon a time, 
and — ” 

“It’s the old reservoir! Sure, it’s 
the old reservoir!” shouted Jude, struck 

178 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


with the same peculiar and sudden burst 
of excitement with which he had entered 
the treasure quest. “An’ now to find 
the gold! Now to find the gold!” 


179 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


CHAPTER THREE. 

T HEY scrambled out of the basin, with 
its tangle of growth, and climbed to 
the high rim above the old diggings. 
Here Hoxie again consulted the buckskin 
chart, and made another reconnoiter. 
With the reservoir located, there remained 
to be found the site of the miner’s cabin. 
Of course, nothing would be left of the 
cabin now. In truth, it and all other log 
structures on the claim had been burned 
by the Indians at the time of their savage 
attack. Yet, according to the story of 
the one who fashioned the buckskin chart, 
there was a big hemlock near the cabin 
— and under this hemlock the gold had 
been buried. 

Where was the lone hemlock? 

From this high point the treasure- 
hunters had an unbroken view of a wide 
sweep of rugged country above and below 
180 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


them. Above were only high, barren 
crags, devoid of vegetation. Below, 
spread steep slopes, rocky backbones, 
barren gulches. Such growth as they 
could see consisted only of small digger 
pines, brush and low growth. Not a tree 
of any size was to be seen within several 
miles of the old diggings. 

Hoxie knew that it was the custom 
of miners to group their cabins, and oft- 
times such groups were located a long 
distance from the diggings. Thus it was 
possible that this particular lone hemlock, 
though indicated on the faded chart to 
have had a place not more than a half- 
mile below the reservoir, might have 
been a much greater distance down the 
mountain-side. 

“That lone tree should stand right 
over there,” Hoxie said, indicating a 
spot of high ground a half-mile or more 
below the diggings and near the rim of 
a deep gulch. Yet the spot he pointed 
to was barren of growth of any kind. 

Jude Kiger shook his head while he 
made a keen survey of the region. “There 
181 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


ain’t a tree within five miles o’ here,” 
he remarked. “I’m afraid that old map 
has things twisted a bit. Or we’re on 
a blind trail.” 

“It has been a long time since these 
diggings were worked,” Hoxie com- 
mented. “This whole landscape, because 
of slides and the action of the elements, 
could have undergone a complete change 
in all these years.” The youth was not 
going to lose his heart this early in the 
game. He had not made the long quest 
to the high divide of the Siskiyous with 
the expectation of uncovering the lost 
treasure within a few short hours. As 
he had already told Jude, it would require 
awhile to work out the puzzle. Deter- 
mined as to the course he would pursue, 
he led the way down the slope toward the 
spot he indicated from the ridge. 

After an extended search he found 
what appeared to be a valuable clue. 
This was another pile of stones — not 
shaped and cut to uniform size, as were 
those found in the old reservoir, but a 
heap of jagged, broken, sharp-cornered 
182 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


lava rocks. Some of them were red as 
bricks, others were black. 

4 ‘ These stones came out of a fireplace / 9 
declared Hoxie. “The cabin stood here 
— or very near here — ” 

“But where is the hemlock — the big 
tree with the gold under it?” brought 
in Jude. 

“Keep your boots on!” advised Hoxie 
once again, annoyed by the half -breeds 
impatience and evident desire to jump at 
conclusions. A short distance from the 
pile of burnt stones, he came upon some- 
thing that gave the young deputy cause 
for uneasy speculation. This was an ex- 
cavation some six feet across and four 
feet deep. It was not more than ten 
yards from the precipitous bank of the 
canyon. 

When Hoxie Morris looked down into 
that barren hole, his heart sank. It was 
a full minute or longer before he spoke a 
word. Jude was good enough to ask no 
questions. Yet the half-breed, looking 
intently at Hoxie, guessed at once that 
something was wrong. 

183 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


For the first time since early morning, 
the young deputy unshouldered his pack. 
Laying the heavy burden on the ground, 
he dropped down into the hole. 

Some one, perhaps years before, had 
made this excavation. Such was the dis- 
heartening conclusion that came to Hoxie 
Morris. And that some one had taken 
away the gold. The big hole, in a dumb, 
silent manner, seemed plainly to confirm 
this. 

The youth took the pick and began 
making a few desultory strikes into the 
pit’s bottom. 

“Do you expect to find any gold in 
this hole'?” queried Jude. 

Hoxie didn’t answer. He scarcely had 
the heart to stand, much less to talk. 

“My guess is that the stuff was taken 
out a long while ago,” remarked the half- 
breed. “An’ this was the hole they left. 
We might as well quit.” 

Yet the young deputy did not com- 
pletely despair. He sat on the edge of 
the pit, and, with his face resting on his 
hands, his elbows on his knees, did some 

184 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


hard, silent thinking. During the few 
minutes he was down in the hole he took 
note of certain things that caused him to 
wonder. And the big question still to be 
answered was: “What has become of the 
big hemlock ?” 

After a time he let himself down into 
the hole again. This excavation did not 
altogether appear to have been opened by 
human hands. There was no ridge of set- 
tled earth around the rim, as there would 
be had so much dirt and broken shale 
been thrown from it. Nor were there any 
indications that a shovel or a pick had 
ever been thrust into the ground in or 
around the hole. By looking close, Hoxie 
found the broken ends of dead roots pro- 
truding from the earth all around the pit. 

Jude Kiger, sitting on the hole’s edge, 
watched every movement of Hoxie. But 
Hoxie offered no word of comment, nor 
did he offer any explanation of anything 
he found. But he caused the half-breed 
to watch him with increased wonder when 
the young deputy climbed out and went 
over to the edge of the cliff, where with 

185 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


shaded eyes he looked down into the 
depths of the gorge. 

What Hoxie saw down there caused 
him to utter a low whistle. A hundred 
feet directly below, and where the canyon 
gorge narrowed till its two walls were no 
more than twenty yards apart, a great 
tree lay directly across the abyss. The 
youth knew at a glance that such a tree 
could never have found rooting on the 
precipitous walls of the gorge. It must 
have stood on the upper brink, where a 
heavy wind blew it over. If it had stood 
on this side of the chasm as Hoxie be- 
lieved it did, it had turned over in its 
descent, as its rooted end was now lodged 
against the opposite canyon wall. 

The half-breed came out to the rim of 
the gorge. He, too, looked down, and as 
soon as he spied the big tree lodged far 
below shouted lustily: “ There it is! 
There ’s your hemlock! A storm blowed 
it over! The gold must be in the bottom 
of that hole!” Without waiting any word 
of confirmation or command from Hoxie, 
Jude ran back, seized a shovel and began 
186 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


striking with all his might into the bottom 
of the pit. 

But Hoxie had no such course in mind. 
He casually picked up his own shovel 
and returned to the rim of the gorge. 
When Jude, amazed and wondering, came 
out to see what the young deputy intended 
doing, he was surprised to discover the 
latter scrambling down the precipitous 
canyon wall. Already he was within a 
short distance of the fallen tree. Jude 
continued to watch from the cliff’s edge. 

Arriving safely at the tree, he balanced 
himself carefully with his pick, and then 
started out on the trunk that formed a 
high, precarious bridge across the chasm. 
Very slowly, a step at a time, he made his 
way over. As soon as he had reached the 
other end of the tree, he began striking 
the pick into the mass of dirt and broken 
rock that was held by the gnarled and 
closely matted roots of the old tree. After 
a few quick strokes he thrust in his 
hand. Then he turned his face toward 
the cliff and called to the wondering Jude: 

6 6 Bring down the two duffle bags!” 

187 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


There was no excitement, no exulta- 
tion, no tone of joyous discovery or of 
triumph in the low-spoken command; 
nothing to indicate that Hoxie’s search- 
ing, exploring fingers when he thrust his 
hand into the jagged hole he opened 
through the mass of roots, had come in 
contact with a metal that was smooth and 
cold — that his fingers and his whole body 
were thrilled by the magic touch of pure 
goldl 

“What do you want with the bags'?” 
questioned Jude. Undoubtedly the half- 
breed saw no use in making that perilous 
descent of the bluff without sufficient 
cause. 

“Bring them down!” repeated Hoxie, 
sternly. 

Then Jude brought them down. Not 
till he reached the fallen tree did he real- 
ize what had occurred. Not till then did 
he know that the long-sought treasure was 
found. By this time Hoxie had removed 
several heavy bars of the shining yellow 
metal and laid them on the tree trunk. 
Jude, seeing the chunks of pure gold, 
188 


/ 



He began striking the pick into the mass of dirt and broken rock 
held by the gnarled and closely matted roots of the old tree 


189 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


yelled excitedly: “We’ve found it! WeVe 
found it! The stuff! The stuff !” Then 
he started across hurriedly. 

“Watch your step!” cautioned Hoxie. 

There was a full peck of it or more — 
thirty pounds, if there was an ounce — 
pure placer gold, in slabs and nuggets, 
just as they had come from the old dig- 
gings. Hoxie removed it all from the 
roots of the old tree, which so long had 
held the lost treasure within their gnarled 
grasp. Then he carefully measured the 
pile. A third of it he put in one of the 
bags, and this he gave to Jude. “This is 
your part,” he said. “Kutch and I will 
divide ours when we meet again.” 

Jude took his bag, peered into its open 
mouth for awhile with gloating eyes, then 
looked up at Hoxie. “Are you sure you 
made the divvy right?” he questioned. 

Hoxie was not pleased with the ques- 
tion — nor with the tone. He had made 
the division as nearly equitable as possi- 
ble, and he told Jude so. 

“S’pose we shouldn’t meet Kutch 
ag’in. S’pose somethin’ should happen — ” 

190 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“I’m not indulging in such absurd 
suppositions,” returned Hoxie, curtly. 
“Let’s get back up the bluff. It’s far 
past noon — and we’ve not eaten a bite 
since early morning. I want to get back 
down on the trail as quickly as our legs 
can take us.” As the half-breed seemed 
in no hurry to start, Hoxie himself led 
off on the return over the slippery tree 
trunk. Having no further use for the 
pick, and with a desire to lighten the 
returning burden, he left it by the root 
of the tree. He did not know, till later, 
that Jude took the sharp-pointed tool in 
his own hand, and, carrying both the pick 
and the other treasure-bag, followed close 
behind him on the tree. 

Half-way across, Hoxie became aware 
that Jude was crowding him— stepping 
too close to his heels for the safety of 
both. “Slow up, Jude! Don’t come so 
fast!” cautioned the young deputy, with- 
out risking a backward glance. While 
he spoke, he felt, rather than saw, the 
swift, almost silent movement of some- 
thing above and behind him. 

13 191 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


With quick, almost overwhelming ap- 
prehension, came the sense of impending 
disaster. It was as if all the evil fore- 
bodings, the lurking suspicion, the feel- 
ings of distrust, were culminating in one 
sudden blow. Swifter than all, however, 
was the desire to live, to save himself. 
He made a swift, forward step, and at 
the same instant ducked his head. 

The movement was none too soon. The 
pick which Jude Kiger, in the strong 
grasp of his powerful hand and arm, had 
raised and swung down, grazed Hoxie’s 
hat brim and missed the young deputy’s 
head by a short three inches. The handle 
of the tool then glanced from his shoul- 
der, and, jerking from Jude’s grasp, fell 
into the canyon. 

The next instant Hoxie felt the iron 
grip of the half-breed’s free hand at his 
belt. He knew then that Jude, having 
failed to strike him with the pick, was 
now desperately determined to hurl him 
from the tree into the depths of the 
chasm. 


192 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


CHAPTER FOUR. 

T HERE followed a desperate, dizzy, 
close-locked combat on the slippery 
trunk of the tree, high above the rocky 
floor of the chasm. 

Hoxie Morris had two well-defined 
notions in his mind, while he fought and 
struggled. One of these was to get him- 
self free from the grasp of the mad half- 
breed; the other was to hold on to that 
bag of gold. 

He leaned forward, pulling with all his 
weight and strength to gain the end of 
the log. He made a few short steps — 
enough to get him within three yards of 
the end — then he lost his balance. The 
grip of Jude’s hand was still fastened to 
his belt, and when Hoxie felt himself 
going over — falling from the tree — he felt 
also the swaying movement of the half- 
breed’s body. 


193 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


Down, down they dropped. It was 
well for both that Hoxie, in his attempt to 
get free, had pulled the two over till they 
were over the precipitous wall, rather 
than the deep bottom of the gorge. Even 
so, they had a long fall before they struck 
the tangle of undergrowth and brush that 
covered the canyon slope under the tree. 

Even while he fell, Hoxie held tena- 
ciously to the bag of gold. He felt his 
face and hands strike prickly boughs of 
chaparral — felt the sharp sting of briars 
— then a crash — and he lost consciousness. 

How long he lay in a crumpled heap 
he did not know. But when he opened 
his eyes night shadows were lowering in 
the gorge. With the first slight move- 
ments of his bruised and scratched body 
there came a thousand shooting pains. In 
a vague way he realized that his right 
hand still held to the bag of gold. And 
his right foot and leg were useless — the 
ankle twisted and sprained. By a su- 
preme effort he contrived to straighten 
himself and get a more comfortable posi- 
tion. 


194 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


These things, slight as they were, cost 
infinite pain, and they were accomplished 
before he had any definite idea of where 
he was, or of what had happened. Slowly 
his sense of location came back to him — 
and then he knew. He raised his head 
and gazed round him. He knew that one 
of his eyes was so badly swollen that he 
could scarcely see through it; knew that 
it was getting quite dark now within the 
gorge. 

He thought of Kutch — poor, crippled 
Kutch, whom they had left down on the 
lower trail. To think of Kutch Cober 
was to bring a feeling of sympathy to 
Hoxie’s throbbing heart. But his next 
thought — the thought of J ude — of the 
treacherous, evil-plotting Jude — brought 
anger — an overwhelming desire for re- 
venge. 

Yet this unhappy desire did not long 
remain. For out of the darkness, and 
from near at hand, came a groan — the 
stifled groan of a human in pain. Then 
he heard his name spoken, faintly, but 
distinctly, and with peculiar appeal: 

195 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“Hoxie I Oh, Hoxie!” It was Jude 
calling him. 

“Yes,” Hoxie replied. “I’m here. 
Where are you? What do you want?” 

“I’m just below you,” replied the half- 
breed. “I’m dyin’ for water. Have you 
your canteen?” 

At the cost of a thousand pains, Hoxie 
crawled, or dragged, down the steep slope 
to where Jude lay. Then he unstrapped 
his canteen, removed the stopper, and 
gave the dark-skinned youth a drink even 
before he himself took a drop. Jude fell 
back with a groan. 

“Where’s that pick?” he asked curi- 
ously. 

“I don’t know,” answered Hoxie. 
“What do you want with the pick?” 

“I want you to kill me with it. You 
know I tried — ” 

“Yes, I know what you tried to do,” 
Hoxie said, “and I suppose I ought to 
use it the same way on you. But I’m not 
going to. Anyhow, I need you to help 
get me out of here. My right ankle is 
twisted.” 


196 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“I can’t help you a step,” said Jude. 
“Both my legs are out o’ business. I feel 
like an elephant had set down on me. I 
can’t even crawl.” 

“I can crawl,” declared Hoxie, “and 
I’m going to get out of here.” 

“You don’t mean it.” 

“Yes, I do!” The young deputy spoke 
determinedly. In truth, he did mean it. 
During these few moments, in spite of the 
twisted ankle and the long, uncertain 
distance to the nearest trail, Hoxie con- 
sidered the situation seriously. If they 
remained here in the chasm, they would 
certainly die. If they lived, they must 
get out. Hoxie knew the only way he 
could get out was to crawl, and the long 
night, and the next day, and another day, 
and another night, perhaps a longer time, 
lay ahead. 

“Come on,” urged Hoxie, dragging 
forward and pulling the bag of gold, “I’m 
going.” He waited a moment. 

He heard a movement in the darkness 
— then a muttered groan. “It’s no use,” 
exclaimed the half-breed, in despair. 

197 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“I’m done for. You go ahead — if you 
can. This is a soft bed here — good 
enough, anyhow, for one like me. So I’ll 
stay — till — well, to the finish!” 

“Well, I must go,” said Hoxie. “Do 
you want another drink?” 

“Sure!” 

The young deputy turned round the 
canteen. Jude drank deeply, and when 
he was done he reached in the dark and 
found Hoxie ’s hand. “Say, old man,” 
he begged piteously, “before you go, I 
want to — say somethin’ — or ask if you’ll 
pardon a mean cuss like me — ” The half- 
breed faltered, stammering uncertainly, 
as if he found difficulty in finding words 
to speak. “You know, of course, that I 
tried to kill you. I was greedy. I wanted 
the whole thing. But now that there’s 
no chance for me, I want you to take my 
bag with you, and if you get out, an’ find 
Kutch — you make a divvy with him — ” 

“No, Jude — you keep your part — right 
here,” Hoxie answered. “And as for all 
the rest, don’t worry. If I get out, I’ll 
send help to you. Good-by!” 

198 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


1 6 So long — par dner — you ’re white — 
white all the way through!” muttered 
Jude, fervently. 

Then the young deputy, pulling the 
bag of gold, began dragging his bruised, 
torn and pain-filled body down the black, 
rough floor of the gorge. He knew that, 
by the shortest possible route to the lower 
trail, it would be a long, long crawl. But 
the night, with its cooling breath, lay 
ahead — and there was a chance — always a 
chance. The blood flowed red in his 
veins, and the love of life was strong. 
The last thing that would come to him 
would be the desire to quit. As long 
as he had the strength to move he would 
keep moving — keep moving down the 
gorge. 

The bag of gold was a great burden, 
yet he would as soon have given up in 
utter despair as to have left it behind. 
All through the long hours of the night 
he crawled and kept crawling. The 
chaparral thorns, the bramble briars, the 
sharp shale stones, cut his hands and 
arms, his cheeks and limbs even more. 

199 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


They tore his clothes into strings — but 
he kept going. 

Now and then he felt cool grass under 
him, and at such places he would lie at 
ease — yet not long enough to let that dull, 
tantalizing stupor overcome him. He had 
no idea of distance, no definite idea of 
direction. He only knew that if he kept 
going down the gorge, always down, he 
must finally reach the lower trail. 

There came times during that long 
night when the weakness of utter exhaus- 
tion made him lie for longer and more fre- 
quent intervals with his face buried in the 
cool grass and his hands outstretched. 
Nothing was sweeter to him than those 
delicious moments when restful, peaceful 
sleep seemed so near at hand. Yet he 
fought them off, and kept crawling. 

The time came when he was sure that 
he must give up — give up to those seasons 
of stupor whose frequent recurrence was 
fast driving him into unconsciousness. 
He did lie once, for so long a time that 
when he awoke he found himself gazing 
with blinking, blinded eyes into the daz- 
200 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


zling suru He raised up with a start. And 
he felt more refreshed, especially after he 
had emptied the last bit of water from his 
canteen. 

He dragged on again, pulling the bag 
of gold. The sun rose higher, and the 
day’s heat grew. He became thirsty — 
and he heard flowing water — water chat- 
tering, too loud for a spring. He con- 
cluded there must be a stream farther 
down. He crawled on, eager to find it. 
Several times he had to halt, groaning, to 
straighten his injured limb, and to rest 
his pain-racked body. 

Finally he realized that there was 
green grass under him again — and soft, 
cool earth. It smelled deliciously. He 
wanted to bury his face in it. But he 
wanted water. He was dragging on, slid- 
ing down an embankment, when there 
came to his ears the thumping of hoofs. 

He raised his head and listened, his 
heart throbbing with hope. He could hear 
the sound plainly — thump! thump! thump! 

He tried to cry out, but no sound, or 
very little, came from his parched lips. 

201 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


He listened awhile, and then he tried 
again to shout. This time he had better 
success. Almost at once he heard a call: 
“Who is that?” In spite of his pain, of 
his dull senses, Hoxie knew that voice, 
clear, bell-like, musical. 

“Here, Kutch — down here by the 
creek!” Hoxie managed to cry, putting 
all his remaining strength into the heart- 
breaking appeal. Then he stretched him- 
self full length on the cool ground. He 
knew in a vague way that the sound of 
the thumping hoofs was getting louder 
— louder. He knew that the voice called 
again — called his name repeatedly. 

When he did feel the touch of a hand 
on his arm — felt the reviving dash of cold 
water on his face, and a refreshing 
draught at his lips — he opened his eyes 
and looked up into the smiling face of 
Kutch Cober. 

“I’m here, Hoxie, old boy — I’m here!” 
the cripple assured heartily. “I’ll get you 
aboard one of the cayuses, and we’ll have 
you down the slope in no time. But 
what’s happened? Where’s Jude — ” 

202 


THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


“We found the gold, Kutch!” Hoxie 
exclaimed in feverish exultance, as he 
more tightly grasped the treasure-bag. 
“I have it here — yours and mine I And 
Jude — Jude is up in the gorge — with a 
broken leg! We must send help to him 
— soon!” 

“Very well, Hoxie, very well,” said 
Kutch; “but you go first. Here, take 
another pull at this canteen while I bring 
a cayuse round and rig a pair of lifting- 
poles. It will be no small job getting 
you down the trail.” 

Indeed, it was no small job for Kutch 
Cober, the cripple. Yet he, with such 
help as the injured youth could render, 
contrived to do it. So that by the time 
another night came, both Hoxie and 
Jude lay on cots in the cabin of a home- 
steader, while a doctor came out from the 
central camp. 

When Jude Kiger, with Hoxie, was 
fully recovered, and went down the trail 
of the Siskiyou slope, he left something 
up there on the high ranges whose loss 
made him a different youth — made him 

203 



Left something up there on the high ranges whose loss made him a 

different youth 


204 



THE BUCKSKIN COAT 


more honest, more trustworthy, more a 
real man. The thing he left was not the 
buckskin coat alone. Oh, no! Just what 
it was even Kutch Cober does not know, 
for Hoxie didn’t tell him all that happened 
on the slippery trunk of that old hemlock 
in the chasm. But Kutch does know that 
Jude Kiger, for some mysterious reason, 
was a far better Jude than he ever was 
before. 


205 




SWITCHBACK JUDE 

I T was the custom of the Alpine Club to 
have its midwinter excursion into the 
open on some Saturday in J anuary. This 
year, acting upon the suggestion of Quiff 
Allison and Sid Matthews, who were the 
“ Committee on Arrangements/ ’ the Al- 
pines decided to make the trip up the 
“ Corkscrew Line” to the Bluebottle 
Quarries. 

“We’ll have one dandy fine time, and 
it will be one great big day for us if we go 
up there,” Quiff confidently assured, when 
he made his report to the other fellows. 
“Mack Buford, boss of the works, has 
given us an invitation to come. He de- 
clares he will make it an open holiday for 
all hands. There will be outdoor sports 
a-plenty, and a grand free feed in the 
quarry chuck-house. Also, we’ll have a 
free ride up and back on the ‘ Express,’ 
which in itself will be worth the price.” 

14 207 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


“How about it, fellows ?” Brick Dor- 
gan, the Alpine president, demanded. 
The question, however, was a mere for- 
mality. Brick knew well enough what the 
verdict would be. And the verdict was 
rendered with a whoop. 

“The Bluebottle goes!” the Alpines 
shouted in hearty agreement. “All 
aboard for the ‘ Corkscrew Line’!” 

“So be it!” decided Brick. “And now 
there’s just one other little matter we 
ought to take care of at this meeting, as 
we won’t get together again till after the 
Bluebottle trip. There is an application 
on file, from a prospective candidate — 
Jude Ellis—” 

“What? Switchback Jude?” inter- 
jected a protesting voice in a tone of deri- 
sion. “Who brought his name in? He’s 
not in our class at all!” 

“Mebbe he isn’t in our class when it 
comes to style and furbelows,” spoke 
Tobe Ford; “but old Jude is all there 
when it comes to being honest and square. 
I brought his name in because I think he 
needs our fellowship. All of his working- 
208 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


time he is obliged to put in out at the 
switchback station on the ‘ Corkscrew . 7 
It’s little fun he has. Mack Buford has 
agreed to let him off Saturday, so he can 
go up the line with us and share our fun.” 

To this proposal there was a muttered 
disapproval. To a number it appeared 
as if Tobe was attempting to “railroad” 
the candidate through, which was strictly 
against the time-honored policy of the 
Alpines. Also, the atmosphere of exclu- 
siveness, which long had been the pride 
and the boast of the club, was not exactly 
suited to such as “Switchback Jude.” 

To obviate a disagreeable dispute on 
the eve of the midwinter frolic, Quiff 
ruled that the application be held over 
till another meeting, when definite action 
would be taken. Which suited a great 
number of the members, but was anything 
than pleasing to Tobe. As a matter of 
fact, Tobe had been so confident of get- 
ting Jude into the club before Saturday 
he had told the youth at the switchback 
station to be ready when the train came 
by, so he could join the crowd and go on 

209 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


to the quarries as one of the Alpines. As 
chairman of the committee on new mem- 
bers, and knowing as he did the sterling 
qualities of Jude, Tobe had felt safe in 
making such promise. Thus he went 
away from the meeting in a bitter mood. 
He knew full well how keenly disap- 
pointed would be Jude, and no explana- 
tion he could make would serve to put 
matters right. 

In fact, Tobe had no opportunity to 
explain anything, as he did not have the 
chance to again meet or see Jude till the 
next day. And the next day was the day 
of the excursion. At 8:30 in the morning 
the Alpines, a shouting, yelling, vocifer- 
ously noisy crowd, assembled at the little 
junction station and climbed aboard the 
“Corkscrew Express / ’ This was a string 
of stubby dump-cars drawn by a snort- 
ing little locomotive of the logging-engine 
style, built for power more than speed. 
For the “Corkscrew Line,” as its name 
suggested, wound and twisted up and 
around the steep mountain grades to the 
Bluebottle Quarries. 

210 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


There had been snow during the night, 
a six-inch depth lying on the lowlands, 
with a much thicker mantle covering the 
higher ranges. Earlier in the morning, 
an extra engine, pushing a snow-plow, 
has ascended the line, to clear the way 
for the “ express.’ ’ With a shrill shriek 
of its whistle, and much shouting from the 
passengers, the train started. It mattered 
little to the Alpines that the morning was 
cold and there was no warmth in the open 
cars. They kept warm running back and 
forth and jumping from one car to an- 
other. On the steeper grades, where the 
snorting engine slowed to a walk, the boys 
amused themselves by leaping off into the 
soft snow and jumping on again. As the 
“express” climbed higher, the air grew 
colder and the snow deeper — the moun- 
tain scenery became more wildly grand. 
Truly, it was good to be out, and alive, 
on such a day I And the Alpines, for the 
greater number, were enjoying it to the 
fuU. 

Tobe Ford was an exception. Tobe’s 
cup of happiness was embittered with the 
211 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


thought and the knowledge that they 
soon would pass one whom he had hoped 
would share their day’s fun. This one 
waited confidently and hopefully at the 
switchback station farther up the line. 
The switchback lay at the base of a 
steeper grade, and its purpose was to ac- 
commodate portions of loaded trains that 
were cut off and left in order to lighten 
the load for the remainder of the climb. 

On this morning the train would not 
stop — so Tobe had heard. The locomotive 
could make the grade with the load it 
pulled. So the engineer had told the con- 
ductor, and the conductor had told Quiff 
there would be no halt at the switchback, 
unless the boys desired it. And Quiff, 
who was looking at Tobe just then, saw 
the expression of appeal in the latter’s 
eyes. He knew, or he guessed, that Tobe 
was thinking of “ Switchback Jude.” If 
the train did not stop, Jude could not get 
on — that was certain. Nor would he get 
on if no invitation were given. “No,” 
Quiff ordered, “we won’t stop! Keep ’er 
going.” 


212 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


Thus it came to pass that the ‘ 4 Cork- 
screw Express,” with its engine roaring 
and snorting like a demon, charged 
through the switchback with all the speed 
it could muster. There was a youth stand- 
ing on the snow-piled platform, wearing 
a bright new mackinaw over his blue 
flannel shirt. His cap and his mittens, 
also, were much better than those he 
usually wore when on regular duty. He 
gave the engineer a signal as the engine 
snorted by, but the engineer paid no 
heed. He looked up hopefully, confi- 
dently, at the crowd of youths who filled 
the cars. But the only response he got 
was a chorus of yells and cries: “ Hello, 
Jude!” “ Switchback Jude!” 4 i Hold ’er 
down!” “We’ll see you later!” 

So Jude Ellis, his bright new macki- 
naw making a spot of checkered red and 
green on the snow, stood dumbly on the 
platform and watched the “express” drag 
its winding length up the grade. He felt 
his heart sink to the region of his boots. 
In joyful anticipation he had made himself 
ready for the day’s sport with the Alpine 

213 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


fellows at Bluebottle. It was to be his 
“day off.” And he had confidently hoped 
to have a big time. Tobe Ford had prom- 
ised it, and Tobe was his friend. Quite 
plainly, something had gone wrong. The 
“express” had not stopped for him, as 
Tobe said it would. And, to Jude’s way 
of thinking, there was but one reason for 
its failure to halt at the switchback. The 
Alpine Club didn’t want him as one of 
their members. He was not their class — 
not their style! 

Bitterly disappointed, almost to the 
point of resentment, Jude strode from the 
platform and started across the track 
toward the shanty on the hillslope. A 
long, lonely day was promised — an un- 
happy contrast to the day of sport and 
pleasure for which he had prepared. Jude 
halted and raised a clenched fist. There 
was a cold glitter in his gray eyes. “I’m 
as good as any of that high-toned bunch!” 
he declared aloud. “For the most part, 
I don’t care! But I did think better of 
Tobe! I’ve counted on him as my friend 
— but now — ” 


214 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


Jude did not finish what he had in 
mind. Just then there reached his well- 
trained ears the shrill call of a locomo- 
tive whistle. Jude recognized the call 
instantly. It was the signal of “down 
brakes !” It came from the express, which 
by now had reached the steepest part 
of the upper grade. After a moment the 
call sounded again. This was followed 
by a screeching of brake-shoes as steel 
bit steel, then a deep-toned, muffled roar 
that grew louder with each passing 
second. 

“The i express’ has broke in two — 
and she’s runnin’ wild!” guessed Jude 
aloud, as he turned his gaze toward the 
Bluebottle incline, around whose winding 
course the train had made its way. “If 
she’s loose — if that string of cars has 
broken from the engine — the whole works 
will come tearin’ down the grade!” 

At that very moment the “express” 
was “running wild.” Anyway, the five 
rear cars, which carried the shouting, 
jubilantly yelling passengers, broke from 
the remainder of the train and started 

215 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


back down the grade. The stout little 
engine could do nothing more than shriek 
a warning. The two brakemen leaped at 
once to the hand-brakes and set them 
down hard. The boys were quick to learn 
their peril, and changed their joyous 
shouts to cries of alarm and terror. They, 
too, set hands to the brakes in a desperate 
attempt to check the downward flight of 
the runaway cars. But the track, cleared 
of its snow, was slippery with ice, and no 
setting of brakes could serve to check the 
downward speeding train. On and on, 
swifter and swifter, hurtling round the 
curves, threatening every instant to leap 
from the narrow right-of-way into the 
depths of the canyon, the broken train 
rushed. 

Jude Ellis, standing in the middle of 
the track, near the snow-piled platform, 
heard it coming. The upraised fist had 
dropped to his side; the cold glitter left 
his eyes; the bitterness went out of his 
heart. He thought only of the peril that 
lay ahead of that downward-speeding 
string of runaways. Left to themselves, 
216 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


with a clear track ahead, and nothing bet- 
ter to check them than the hand-brakes, 
they would certainly be hurled from the 
rails and thrown into the gulch, which 
would mean death for many of the youths 
on board. 

It was Jude’s “day off.” But not his 
day off in the matter of duty where help- 
ful service could be done. He turned 
quickly and struck up the track toward 
the upper switch. Only the main line 
had been cleared of its snow. The siding 
was covered with a depth of from two to 
three feet. When the lower car in the 
string of runaways shot into view down 
the winding grade, Jude had opened the 
switch for the siding. He jumped to one 
side, and waited tensely, while the cars 
came roaring toward him. Shrieking, 
clattering, the trucks struck the switch, 
bounded uncertainly — then took the sid- 
ing! A moment later, and the side-tracked 
runaways plowed into the deep snow, and, 
with all brakes set, slid to a halt, while the 
crowd of excited youths leaped off, some 
feet first, some head first, all but bury- 

217 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


in g themselves in the bank of frozen 
fleece. 

Quiff Allison was one of the first to 
dig himself out and clamber back up the 
line toward the siding head. He was at 
the lower brake when the runaway train 
struck the switchback — and he knew what 
Jude had done. “Tm looking for Jude 
Ellis!” he sputtered, as he dug the snow 
from his ears. “ Where’s Jude?” 

“ Right over here,” answered Tobe 
Ford, from the main track. “I’ve al- 
ready found him.” In truth, a number 
of the Alpines had gathered round the 
tall mountain youth who wore the bright 
new mackinaw. 

“We neglected to stop for you, 
Jude, when we went by awhile ago,” 
smiled Quiff, “so we’ve come back to get 
you. It was a mighty good thing you 
turned the switch, or we would have gone 
right on by again!” 

A hearty laugh, which quickly restored 
the excited nerves of the crowd, followed 
this declaration from Quiff. Not one of 
them but who knew what their leader 


218 


SWITCHBACK JUDE 


had in mind, and there was a rousing 
shout of agreement when he said: “The 
locomotive is coming, Jude. The ‘ ex- 
press’ will soon make another start to- 
ward Bluebottle. Come along, come 
along!” 


219 




CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE 
CAYUSES 

T HE hated paleface is taking our 
lands !” 

“He is killing our game!” 

“He is catching our salmon 1” 

“He is making our women and chil- 
dren sick till they die!” 

“We must rise up like a tornado, and 
destroy the hated paleface!” 

Such were the wailing laments of the 
medicine-men and the war-cries of the 
chiefs among the Cayuse and neighboring 
tribes of the Oregon country near the late 
forties of the last century. Much earlier 
in that century the Hudson Bay Company 
had established a fort and trading-post 
on the lower Columbia River. The trap- 
pers and traders, brought into the wilder- 
ness by this company, were venturing far 
out into hitherto unknown and totally un- 
explored regions in quest of pelts and 
221 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


furs. Rough, hardy men, trained to such 
work, and versed in the tactful art of 
approaching savages, the trappers and 
traders had no great difficulty with the 
Indians. True enough, some who went 
forth from the fort never returned. 

But the ire of the red men was not 
fully aroused till the vanguard of the 
first homesteaders came over the plains 
and crossed the mountain ranges. These 
were a different people; for these came 
not merely to trade for a few pelts and 
furs; they came to stay — to locate home- 
steads, build cabins, establish homes. 
And almost among the first of the settlers 
were the dauntless missionaries. Jason 
Lee, Daniel Lee, Cyrus Shepherd, Dr. 
Parker, Dr. Whitman — these were a few 
of the brave men who established the first 
Protestant missions in the far West. 

The Cayuses and the Nez Perces were 
particularly incensed with the work, de- 
velopment and growth of the Whitman 
mission, established by Dr. Whitman and 
his company of assistants in 1836. Dr. 
Whitman and Samuel Parker had come 


222 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


West the year before to explore the Ore- 
gon country. They were led to believe 
that missionaries of the Protestant faith 
would receive a hearty welcome from the 
Indian tribes. Whitman returned to New 
York highly enthused, and his story of 
the Indians and their needs brought a 
prompt and hearty response. Early the 
next year his company started westward. 
In the party were a number of women, the 
wives of missionaries and prospective set- 
tlers. The company traveled with the fur- 
traders from Missouri to the Western 
mountains. Up till that time, all travel 
across the American plains had been by 
horseback and pack-trains. But the 
Whitman party took wagons, mainly for 
the benefit of the women, a few of whom 
were in feeble health. But in the Rockies 
the wagons had to be broken up and built 
into stout two-wheeled carts. Even these 
— or all but one — were finally abandoned. 

The Columbia River region was 
reached at length, and a mission estab- 
lished. Adobe houses were built, land 
fenced and plowed, crops sown with grain 

15 223 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


and seed brought from the East, and very 
favorable harvests garnered in the au- 
tumn. Cattle were brought from Cali- 
fornia, where they were purchased of the 
Mexicans for $3 a head, and horses for 
$10 each. These were driven over the 
Siskiyous and the Cascades, with a loss 
of about one-fourth. 

Not only did the mission people and 
the homesteaders work for the develop- 
ment and establishment of trading-centers 
and homes, but to help the Indians. The 
Bible — or portions of the book — were 
translated and printed in the tribal lan- 
guage that the Indians might read and 
learn for themselves. A little printing- 
press, brought by the missionaries, was 
used to do the printing. The missionaries 
believed that the quickest way to civilize 
the Indians was by education, training 
and helpful service. 

In addition to being taught to read 
portions of Scripture, to worship the 
“God of the paleface,” and to pray, the 
Indians were shown how to cultivate the 
soil, plant and harvest crops, raise cattle 

224 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


and perform other kinds of civilized 
labor. Indian orphans were given homes 
in the mission, and medical service was 
offered gratuitously by Dr. Whitman and 
his aids to all sick or ailing savages. 

And all might have progressed smooth- 
ly but for the chiefs and medicine-men. 
Fearing they would lose their hold upon 
their followers, and their glory as leaders, 
they began to make trouble. Jealousy, 
envy, selfishness, ignorance — which have 
been the cause of strife and turmoil and 
war since the world began — were the dis- 
turbing influences with the Cayuses. 

Five Crows, chief of the Cayuses, hated 
the palefaces from the depth of his savage 
heart. The kindness, the sincerity of pur- 
pose, the ideals and improved conditions 
fostered by the whites were as nothing to 
him. With Five Crows the power of chief 
was the main thing. And he feared his 
power would be lost if the whites re- 
mained. His medicine-men agreed with 
him and so the cry was started: 

“We must rise up and destroy the 
palefaces !” 


225 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


But to provoke war there had to be a 
motive — something to spur on his war- 
riors — something to make the bloodthirst 
passion. 

It happened that many of the Indians 
who visited the mission were stricken 
with measles. To the savage this was a 
strange and dreadful disease. The medi- 
cine-men said it was the “ curse of the 
devil brought by the palefaces.” Had Dr. 
Whitman and his trained helpers been 
left alone, they would soon have cured 
most of the stricken Indians, just as they 
were curing the mission inmates. 

But the Indians, heeding the cry of the 
tribal medicine-men, and following the 
Indian custom, when stricken with the 
“ curse of the devil” rushed down to the 
river and plunged into the cold water. 
And most of them were dragged out dead. 

“See! See! It is the curse of the 
devil!” wailed the medicine-men. “We 
must kill the palefaces, or we all shall 
die!” 

Day after day the cry was kept up, 
and night after night, in growing num- 
226 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


bers, with swift-increasing hatred, the 
warriors of Five Crows danced around 
their fires. But even so, the mission peo- 
ple hoped to quiet the disturbance, and 
put down the fears of the savages. 
Calmly, resolutely, Dr. Whitman and his 
company of workers proceeded with their 
labor of mercy despite the growing hatred. 

Secretly, and unknown to the whites, 
Five Crows, fearing to make an attack 
alone, worked up an alliance with other 
tribes. Runners, swift and silent as the 
wind, went forth in the night, carrying 
the message of hate, and planning for the 
attack. It was the desire of Five Crows, 
of War Eagle and other of the associated 
chiefs, to make a united strike upon the 
mission at an unexpected moment. 

True to their cry, the savages, armed 
and ready, and made fiends by the blood- 
thirst, rose and came down like a tornado 
upon the mission. Dr. Whitman and other 
leaders had been warned by a friendly sav- 
age — but too late. The whites had no 
chance to escape — no opportunity to get 
help from distant forts. 

227 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


On November 29 the red men swarmed 
upon the mission, broke through the gates, 
and, though the whites fought heroically, 
the multitude of savages made resistance 
futile. Dr. Whitman, Mrs. Whitman and 
seven others of the mission company were 
barbarously slain. The whites fought on, 
hand to hand, and five more were killed 
before the carnage ended. The savages 
could have slain every person in the mis- 
sion, but this was not the plan of Five 
Crows and the fighting chiefs. They 
wanted ransom. So about fifty women 
and children were taken captives and held 
as hostages, the chiefs sending forth word 
to the nearest forts that the captives 
would not be liberated till assurance was 
given that no Indian would be harmed 
because of the massacre, and that the 
palefaces would abandon the Oregon 
country. 

In a few days, news of the attack 
and the murdering of the whites having 
reached the distant settlements, a great 
“powwow” was held at Fort Walla Walla 
between the fort officers and the represen- 
228 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


tative emissaries from the tribes. Bitterly 
incensed, the fort soldiers and volunteers 
would have gone forth at once on a cam- 
paign of revenge; but they held them- 
selves in check to save the lives of the 
captive women and children. The Indians 
were censured for having allowed the 
medicine-men and chiefs to promote the 
massacre, and were assured that stern 
vengeance would follow. But, to win the 
freedom of the captives, liberal presents 
were given them. Nine days later, the 
half-hundred women and children, hag- 
gard, terror-stricken, almost starved, 
reached the fort. 

But this did not end the trouble. True 
to the warning given by the fort com- 
mander, the whites were determined to 
punish the Cayuses. Five Crows and War 
Eagle, having gained this apparent tri- 
umph so easily, became even more arro- 
gant than before. A complete regiment 
of volunteers was organized and trained 
to make war upon the Cayuses and their 
allies. Colonel Gilliam was placed in com- 
mand, and, with his regiment divided 

229 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


into convenient companies, marched into 
the Indian country. 

Five Crows and War Eagle, with a 
great host of warriors, many of them 
armed with rifles, took a secure position 
on the elevated plains near the Umatilla 
River. The savages still gloated over their 
destruction of the Whitman mission and 
the murdering of the whites. Much danc- 
ing, feasting and blood-crazed shouting 
made them feel immune to any danger 
from the paleface. The medicine-men 
encouraged this, and it went to such an 
extreme that the savages believed they 
were “ charmed.” 

“The white man’s gun can not harm 
us!” shouted the savages. 

“The white man’s gun can not kill 
Five Crows!” boasted the warriors. 

“War Eagle can swallow all the bul- 
lets fired at him!” shrieked the red men. 

Possibly this was not the cry that Five 
Crows wanted to hear. At heart he was 
a coward. He had not the red courage 
of other Western chiefs. His main weap- 
on was treachery. Yet he dared not show 

230 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


the white feather before his own braves. 
Nor could War Eagle. 

The whites had drawn up in orderly 
battle array, thrown up entrenchments, 
and made ready to fight till the last man, 
if such fighting must be done to quell the 
bloodthirsty Cayuses. 

And when they heard the boasting 
cries, some of the men, who understood 
the Cayuse and Nez Perce tongue, called 
for the “charmed” chiefs to ride out in 
the open. Five Crows, trembling and 
fearful now that the time for the real 
test had come, sat trembling on his horse. 
He waited, and let War Eagle ride out 
first. War Eagle, resplendent in his re- 
galia, swept out on the plain, waving his 
arms in bold challenge. A rifle cracked 
from the entrenchments in response to 
the chief’s brazen dare. 

And War Eagle, with a loud cry that 
carried with it the note of death, fell in 
a limp, lifeless heap from his mount. 

“Go! Go! ! Stop the white man’s 
bullets! ’ screamed the warriors in a de- 
manding chorus to the hesitating Five 

231 


CHIEF FIVE CROWS OF THE CAYUSES 


Crows. And the chief, still trembling 
and fearful, urged his mount into a swift 
run. Another gun cracked, and Five 
Crows yelled with pain; but he held to 
his racing steed, and, in wild terror, 
escaped from the plain. 

Without a leader, and convinced of the 
power, the determination and firm pur- 
pose of the white soldiers, the Cayuse 
warriors surrendered. And thus did the 
Cayuse troubles come to an end. 


232 


A MATTER OF HONOR 

F OR a longer time than most of the 
younger boys could remember, a ski 
race, down the snow-covered slope of 
Eagle Ridge, had been a regular feature 
for Cloud Cap’s George Washington’s 
birthday celebration. Every year Colonel 
Allingham, of the Cloud Cap quarries, 
gave a purse of $25 to the winner. Early 
in the month the try-out was held, and the 
three best runners were named for the 
main race. This year a new runner ap- 
peared — Bud Keezer, a comparative new- 
comer in the mountain hamlet. Bud had 
as his competitors in the race, Gus Brady 
and Dan Willet. Both Gus and Dan had 
run before, Gus having won the purse of 
last year; and he had declared, quite boast- 
fully, that he would win it again — even 
against the newcomer. 

By the rules of the race, each contest- 
ant was to turn over his skis to Colonel 

233 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


Allingham at the quarry office the evening 
before the event. They were kept in the 
office overnight, and handed to the run- 
ners on the starting-line. Bud was the 
first of the three to turn in his skis. He 
tarried awhile at the office door, receiving 
the well wishes of the quarry boss, and 
saw the skis laid on the floor by the 
colonel himself. 

Bud had his own reasons for taking 
the pains to see that his skis were re- 
ceived by Colonel Allingham’s own hand. 
He wanted to be sure they were laid by 
in good order — and thus feel confident 
they would come back to him in the same 
condition for the race. Bud had uninten- 
tionally overheard a remark that passed 
between G-us and a group of the latter’s 
followers the day before, and this remark 
brought a feeling of suspicion. As for 
himself, Bud was determined that the race 
would be fairly run and fairly won. 

As he left the colonel’s office, he met 
Gus Brady. Gus had his skis slung over 
his shoulder. His woolen cap was perched 
on the back of his head, and altogether 

234 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


lie wore a cocky air. “ Hello, newcomer !” 
lie saluted. “You’re all ready to be beat, 
are you?” 

“I’m ready for the race — if that’s 
what you mean,” smiled Bud. 

“Well, I hope you’ll do your best,” 
grinned the confident Gus. “But I can’t 
hope that you’ll win.” 

“If the race goes to the best runner, 
I’ll be satisfied,” Bud answered, as he 
went on into the growing night. The 
stars were blinking brilliantly by the time 
he reached home, and the north wind 
came crisp and keen from the high slopes 
of Eagle Ridge, giving promise of a fast 
course on the morrow. 

All the people of the mountain hamlet, 
old and young, wrapped in wool and fur, 
and many on snowshoes or skis, assembled 
at the base of the race-course by two 
o’clock on that afternoon of February 22. 
Before the boys’ ski race, or “champion- 
ship run,” as it was familiarly known, was 
called, there were individual distance leaps 
by the men runners of the camp. Some 
of these older runners, who made marvel- 
235 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


ous jumps from the “hump” at the base 
of Eagle Ridge, had received their train- 
ing, as boys, in the regular ski-run down 
the slope. 

The arrival of the trio of youthful 
runners was the signal for much shouting 
and tossing of caps, with cries of: “Hoo- 
ra-a for Dan Willet!” “Bud is the boy!” 
“Gus is the winner!” 

As with every race that has ever been 
run, there were boosters and “rooters” 
for each contestant. Bud Keezer, hearing 
his own name called by those who wished 
him well, lifted his cap in happy response. 
Again he told himself, as he had frequent- 
ly: “For me it will be a fair race — fairly 
run, fairly won.” 

The course of the ski-run was no easy- 
going straightaway down a barren slope. 
It was laid out with the purpose of testing 
the skill as well as the speed of the run- 
ners. It led for three miles down the 
slope of the mountain, following first an 
upper shoulder of the ridge, then diving 
into a narrow, crooked gulch, and leading 
out finally over a plateau or bench, whose 

236 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


outer edge dropped precipitately over a 
high precipice. Unless the ski-runner was 
an adept, he would find himself, in the 
course of the run, completely off the des- 
ignated trail — and thus ruled out. 

Colonel Allingham climbed to the crest, 
as he had done for many years, carrying 
the skis on his shoulders, and handing 
each pair to their respective owner at the 
starting-line. The boys drew lots for 
positions. Bud won a place between his 
two rivals, and, just before the word to 
start was given, he drew his cap lower, 
buttoned his jacket securely, and looked 
down to where the crowd formed a broad 
splotch of variegated coloring on the 
snow. Bud detected one tiny speck of pea 
green among the reds, the browns, the 
yellows and the blues. Above this tiny 
speck a white muff waved. Bud smiled 
and waved his hand, for he knew it was 
his mother, and she, too, was saying, as 
he had heard her often repeat: “It is a 
matter of honor, son — don’t forget what 
day this is! I’d rather have you lose the 
race than to win it unfairly!” 

237 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


“Get ready !” spoke the commanding 
voice of the colonel. 

The three runners bent over their skis, 
their poles poised. Each was alert for 
the signal. 

“Go!” With the one short word, the 
trio shot down the crooked, snowy slope 
like three strips of color snatched from 
a rainbow. 

Though the runners could not hear and 
could not heed, a chorus of shouts floated 
up the ridge from the crowd below: “Hold 
your lead, Buddy!” “Pass him, Gus!” 
“Hurry, Dan!” “Come on, all of you 
— come on!” 

Though a newcomer, Bud Keezer knew 
every foot of the tortuous course, for he 
had gone over it repeatedly as a matter 
of faithful practice. He knew how and 
when to use his pole — when to hang his 
weight on his right knee, when on the 
left — knew every crook and turn, bush 
and rock, every curve and dip. He had 
made a clean, swift start, and led off with 
a good gain. How long he would hold 
this, or could hold it, he did not know. 

238 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


He did know that both his rivals were 
swift and wary. At the base of the first 
incline he ventured a backward glance 
from the tail of his eye. Grus and Dan 
were running abreast — and not ten yards 
from the heel of his own skis. Both were 
straining their utmost to shorten that lead 
— and neither wanted to bring up the rear. 
One thing was certain, they must enter 
the crooked crevice single-file. And Bud, 
now that he was ahead, told himself deter- 
minedly he must enter it first, and emerge 
first on the lower plateau. But when he 
bent farther forward, straining every 
muscle for a swifter pace, he caught a 
heart-racking sound above the whirring, 
keen-cutting whistle of the skis. This 
was a squeak, or groan, like the straining 
of breaking wood. It caused Bud to 
straighten himself for an instant. And 
in that brief moment he had the agonizing 
sense of the ski-runner who senses disas- 
ter — the disaster that must come from a 
breaking ski. Yet Bud knew his skis were 
sound. They had withstood every test 
in practice — and he had handed them 

16 239 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


sound and whole to the colonel the eve- 
ning before. 

“Snap!” 

With that sharp report Bud Keezer’s 
heart almost stopped beating. His right 
ski broke directly under his foot. That 
foot was seized as if by the grip of a 
mighty hand. Bud felt as if his right leg 
would be pulled from his body. Thrown 
out of balance, his ski-pole went deep into 
the snow, and the next instant he was 
hurled headlong, willy-nilly, in the narrow 
cut. He shouted a cry of alarm and terror. 
Gus Brady swerved and made an at- 
tempt to pass, but caught the toe of his 
ski in Bud’s broken one. Then he, too, 
thrown out of balance, went sprawling. 

Dan Willet, approaching from a wider 
distance at the rear, sighted the fallen 
runners in time to make a clean pass, 
and swung on down the slope. 

For a long distance, or through the 
whole length of the narrow cut, Bud and 
Gus slid helter-skelter, now head first, 
now feet first. Neither could check his 
speed or regain his feet. In a vain effort 

240 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


to right himself, or to grasp something 
more than empty space, Gus, shouting in 
a voice of terror, locked his arms around 
Bud’s waist. And so, locked together, 
they slid out of the crevice and out upon 
the high bench below, while the crowd at 
the base of the ridge lifted a chorus of 
alarm and terror. 

Bud soon guessed the meaning of that 
fear-filled cry. He and Gus, unable to 
make the turn, were sliding, slipping, clos- 
er to the brink of the precipice. The 
glazed snow was like ice, and into this 
Bud dug the toe of his right foot, and 
clawed desperately with his mittened 
hands. Try as he might, he could not 
halt the downward movement of himself 
and Gus, while Gus, now struck with an 
overwhelming realization of destruction, 
shrieked at the top of his voice. His 
frantic efforts to check their downward 
slipping on the crusted snow made doubly 
difficult Bud’s attempts to halt their 
going. “Be quiet, Gus, be quiet!” he 
cautioned, “or we’ll both go over the 
bluff!” 


241 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


“We are going over! We are going 
over!” Gus yelled with increased terror. 
“We are going to die! We are going to 
die!” He locked his arms in a still 
tighter embrace about Bud’s squirming 
body. 

Glancing ahead, over the sun-glinting 
slope, Bud saw the dark edge of the bluff’s 
brink drawing closer and closer. He knew 
well enough that, if they kept going — 
slipping — sliding as they were now, they 
would go over — to certain death. 

“We’re going over! We’re going 
over!” Gus shrieked again. “We’re 
going to die!” He gripped Bud’s waist 
till Bud could scarcely breathe. A mo- 
ment later he spoke again, but in a lower 
voice this time, as if both his strength 
and his hope were gone. “Bud — before 
we go over,” he said in a strange tone, 
“I want to tell you — to tell you — ” 

“To tell me what?” Bud demanded, 
wondering. There was something in the 
tone of Gus that made him for the instant 
forget the impending peril of the cliff’s 
brink. 


242 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


“I want to tell you it was my fault — 
your ski breaking — ” 

“What?” snapped Bud, between grit- 
ting teeth. “Your fault? What did you 
do? Tell me!” In a fit of rage, his fin- 
gers sought his rival’s throat. Anger 
drove off his fear and terror. 

“Yes, it was my fault,” Gus repeated. 
“I bored your skis — yesterday — before 
you brought them down to the colonel’s — ” 
“You — you scheming dog!” hissed the 
irate Bud, as he gripped at the throat 
of Gus. 

“Forgive me — for — give me, Bud — ” 
begged Gus, “for we’re going to die — ” 
Bud’s fingers relaxed. Not only the 
pleading voice of his rival, but another 
voice, that came with clear, distinct sweet- 
ness up the snow-covered slope, seemed to 
pull at his heart-strings. “Remember, 
son — it is a matter of honor,” he heard 
that voice repeat — the voice of his mother. 

Of honor! That was it! And this 
was the day of days to remember. Bud, 
with sudden determination, and a desper- 
ate resolve, let go his hold on the throat 

243 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


of Grus Brady. His hand reached back 
till his mittened fingers found the broken, 
dangling ski. He jerked and pulled, and 
the piece gave way. Then with all his 
strength, even while himself and Gus kept 
sliding, slipping, ever closer to the brink, 
he jabbed the broken ski into the crusted 
snow, and its splintered end bit like sharp 
teeth into the glaze. Failing at first, he 
jabbed again, then again, and with the 
third stroke the broken hickory went 
through the crust — and held! 

“Easy, Gus — easy!” he cautioned. 
“We will hold here — till help comes! 
Easy — lie easy, and keep your grip on 
me! The men are coming — from below!” 

“But you’ll forgive me, Bud'? Say 
you’ll forgive me!” pleaded Gus. 

“Sure — sure!” Bud Keezer responded 
with the voice and tone of one who knows 
what it means to make all things “a mat- 
ter of honor.” 

By the order of Colonel Allingham, 
that ski race, which came so nearly end- 
ing in disaster, was run again. And in 
the next race, which was “fairly run and 

244 


A MATTER OF HONOR 


fairly won,” Bud Keezer took first place, 
Dan Allen second, Gus Brady third. 
Though he was the loser, Gus was satis- 
fied. For Bud, with true-hearted bigness, 
never let the truth be known as to what 
caused the trouble in the ice-glazed crev- 
ice. And for this he won the everlast- 
ing gratitude of his rival. 


245 




v^~ 



OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


I T was a two days’ trip by pack-pony, 
over a rough mountain trail, from the 
railroad station to the homestead place 
where Zeb Walker lived. But the dif- 
ficulties of the journey through the for- 
est wilderness mattered little with Bob 
Stevens and Sam Telford. They were 
“out for bear,” as they expressed it, 
and when you meet Bruin in his native 
haunts you must leave the beaten track 
and get out into the wild country. 

On the third morning they picked up 
the mountain youth, and the three went 
on a half-day’s journey farther, making 
camp in an isolated, primeval section of 
the Purple Range. They were half a hun- 
dred miles or more from the nearest high- 
way — in a region of deep canyons, vast 
forests of fir and pine, lava crags, and 
serpentine bluffs. Their camp was in the 
shadow of Grayback and Preston, whose 

247 


17 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


high, cone-shaped peaks of everlasting 
snows pierced the blue. 

That night, while the three youths sat 
around their fire, Zeb made his first proph- 
ecy of what lay in store. “If it’s bear 
you want,” he remarked casually, “then 
we’d better try ‘Old Sprangle Paw’ first.” 

“Who is ‘Old Sprangle Paw’?” Bob 
and Sam queried in a chorus of keen in- 
terest. 

“If you’d lived in these parts as long 
as I have, you wouldn’t ask such a 
question,” smiled Zeb. “Every rancher 
and homesteader in the Purple Range 
country knows ‘Old Sprangle Paw.’ She’s 
a reg’lar terror of a she-bear, an’ a long 
while ago she was caught in a trap — but 
got loose with a broken, crooked foot — 
which accounts for her name. Ever since, 
she’s made things lively in these parts — 
stealin’ goats, carryin’ off pigs, an’ doin’ 
all sorts o’ devilment in season and out 
o’ season.” 

“Why hasn’t some hunter or rancher 
put an end to her mischief?” Bob wanted 
to know. 


248 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


“Yes, why hain’t they?” repeated the 
mountain youth, with a laugh. “Good 
enough reason. Old Sprangle Paw doesn’t 
stand round for hunters to take potshots 
at. She must carry several pounds o’ 
lead in her make-up, for she’s certainly 
been used a-plenty as a target. Must be 
she has a charmed life — anyhow, she still 
lives, moves and has her bein’ — and that 
means she is at her old business, reg’lar, 
of makin’ trouble. Just two nights ago 
she got two young goats from our flock.” 

“Then, we should get her! Sure we 
should!” declared Sam, positively. “What 
sort is she, Zeb — cinnamon, brown or 
black?” 

“Neither,” answered Zeb, knowingly. 
“She has the dark coat of a silver-tip, 
with a white-tipped nose, but I’m inclined 
to think she is part grizzly. Anyhow, 
she’s some terror of a bear when she is 
cornered as she has been a few times.” 

Zeb added other details, calculated, no 
doubt, to put a quaking fear into the 
hearts of his friends from the settlements. 
But the more he elaborated about the 

249 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


depredations of the notorious she-bear, 
the more keenly anxious were Bob and 
Sam to meet her. 

“I wouldn’t advise you to be overly 
rash in your advances with Old Sprangle 
Paw,” cautioned the mountain youth. 
“I’ve never been particular’ fond of cul- 
tivatin’ her acquaintance.” 

“Well, I’d like to get a straight crack 
at her with my .30-30,” declared Sam. 

“And me, too, with my .25,” brought 
in Bob. 

“You both may have a chance to try 
your guns,” smiled Zeb. 

The Purple Range country was an open 
book to Zeb Walker, and few were the 
trails he had not followed. He knew 
every feeding-ground of big game, whether 
of deer or bear; knew every gulch, every 
stream, every bluff and ridge. So, early 
on the following morning, after the pack- 
ponies had been carefuly hobbled, that 
they might graze on the short mountain 
grass with no danger of wandering, the 
three set out for the day’s hunt. Though 
late summer, the air was deliciously cool 

250 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


and spiced with the fragrant tang of bal- 
sam. They followed a dim trail that led 
by a winding course to the floor of the 
gulch. In a little, green vale, close under 
a high bluff, they came upon a line of 
tracks, freshly made in the soft, moist 
earth. Zeb dropped to his knees, and 
examined the prints critically. “Bear 
tracks!” he announced at once. 

“Must have been a whole drove of 
’em,” guessed Sam, whose less expe- 
rienced eye was following the line of 
marks. 

“Yes, there were three — two average 
size, cinnamons, probably, that went on 
down the canyon. The other one — see — 
it’s a whopper — with a funny crook to the 
fore-paw print — ” 

“Sprangle Paw!” exclaimed Sam and 
Bob. 

“You’ve guessed it,” smiled the 
mountain youth. “But she didn’t stay 
with the other two. She ain’t much for 
company. Just which way she went I 
can’t guess, for the tracks fade off out 
here near the bluff. But I’m sure the 

251 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


other two are on down the canyon, feedin’ 
on thimble-berries. Come on, well try 
them first. ” 

They were a bit disappointed that they 
were not to trail the notorious she-bear at 
once, but spoke no protest when Zeb led 
on down the gulch. The lower portion of 
the vale was grown to a dense thicket of 
cinnamon, buck-brush and wild berry- 
bushes. Through this the three proceeded 
cautiously, slowly and as quietly as if 
stalking a deer. 

“Bear are mighty keen on the scent,’ ’ 
the mountain youth explained. “An’ 
they’ll run just as quick as a deer.” 
Which was not at all the way Bob and 
Sam had believed. They had expected an 
open, heroic encounter with the wild 
brutes. Thus this painstaking, tedious 
and arduous sneaking, mostly on hands 
and knees, through the tangle, was not the 
sort of sport they had counted on. 

Finally they drew to a halt behind a 
long, low boulder. The vale floor was 
more open here, and for this reason Zeb 
had urged greater caution. Evidently he 

252 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


believed they were in close proximity to 
the game, as he had not spoken a word 
for the past half-hour. When they had 
lain awhile, Zeb raised his head and peered 
over, directing his gaze to the patch of 
thimble-berry bushes twenty-five yards 
beyond. He ducked down again, and, 
turning, said in a subdued whisper: “Two 
of ’em!” Then he cautiously poked the 
long barrel of his rifle over the boulder- 
top, motioning for Bob and Sam to do 
likewise. “You boys pick the right one,” 
he directed; “I’ll take the other — and 
count. Wait till I say ‘ three,’ before you 
pull trigger.” 

When Bob and Sam peered over, they 
saw a pair of things greedily working 
among the thimble-berry bushes. They 
could almost have believed it was a pair 
of hungry hogs. But, while they looked, 
the two forms took the shape of black 
bears, upreared and sniffing suspiciously. 

“Aim!” whispered Zeb. “They’ve 
winded us.” 

Before Sam and Bob got sight, Zeb 
began to count, and then — 

253 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


“Woof!” Snorting fearfully, the two 
bears, struck with sudden terror, went 
crashing through the growth. 

“Bang! Bang!” went the rifles of Bob 
and Sam, for neither waited Zeb’s full 
count. The mountain youth ’s big gun 
boomed an instant later. But the fleeing 
bears crashed on, pell-mell, through the 
thicket. The three guns spoke again — and 
a third time. Then Zeb leaped over the 
boulder, his companions following. A 
half-mile they ran, stumbling through the 
thicket and over the rough, uneven 
ground, till finally, all out of breath, they 
came to a halt at the foot of a high bluff. 
Here, blood splotches on a manzanita 
bush affirmed their hope that one or both 
of the bears had been hit. Getting a line 
on the trail, they scrambled on, and, after 
another quarter-mile run, found one of the 
black forms lying in a curled-up heap by 
a log, over which it had vainly tried to 
climb. 

Neither Bob nor Sam could be sure 
which one of the two had been slain. Zeb 
stooped and examined it hurriedly. “It’s 

254 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


your’n,” he announced, smiling. 4 ‘ Mine 
got away. You made a good shot — 
for both of you must have hit, as there 
are two bullet marks/’ With the big- 
heartedness of his kind, the mountain 
youth was as much pleased as if he him- 
self had made the lucky shot. Bob and 
Sam were too much excited, too keenly 
elated, for speech. All they could do was 
stoop and comb their fingers through the 
long, soft fur, repeating over and over: 
“ Isn’t it a dandy! Won’t it make a great 
rug!” 

“It sure is a dandy!” Zeb agreed. 
“The next thing is to get it down to camp. 
We’ll have bear meat enough here to last 
a month — ” 

“Without Sprangle Paw,” brought in 
Sam. 

“You’re right,” agreed Zeb, as he be- 
gan work with his long-bladed hunting- 
knife. When the game had been drawn 
and hung up to cool, the mountain youth 
proposed that they continue their quest 
farther, picking up the slain bear on their 
return. “Nothing will bother it here till 

255 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


we get back,” he declared with all con- 
fidence. 

They found a line of tracks leading up 
a sheer bluff, and followed these till they 
dimmed out near the summit. As they 
clambered round the ridge to make a sur- 
vey of the canyon floor from the rim of 
the cliff, they were startled by the crash- 
ing of growth on a shelf below. A shout 
of surprise came from all three when they 
discovered a huge she-bear directly be- 
neath them. A small cub squalled at her 
feet, while she soundly spanked it, her 
evident intent being to make it seek cover. 
Another cub, more recalcitrant, clambered 
up the steep bluff wall. 

“Old Sprangle Paw!” Zeb ejaculated. 
“Look out for her! She’ll be a terror with 
those youngsters in her charge!” 

Oddly enough, neither Bob nor Sam 
were thinking just then about the noto- 
rious she-bear. Both had their eyes on 
that cub which seemed bent on climbing 
up the bluff directly into their hands. 
Sam reached over for it, calling to it as if 
it were a kitten. 


256 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


“You’d better be careful!” Zeb 
warned. He leveled his rifle as if to fire, 
but Old Sprangle Paw, more wary than 
ferocious, seized the cub and quickly dis- 
appeared among the rocks. Nor did she 
come out again, even after Sam and Bob 
made a captive of the cub, putting it, 
squalling and kicking, into Sam’s hunting- 
bag. 

“We’ll take it down to camp!” de- 
clared Sam. 

“Yes — and home, later!” added Bob. 
“It will make a great pet. What say 
you, Zeb?” 

Zeb shook his head soberly. “I’d leave 
that little critter right here, if it was me 
doin’ it,” he remarked. 

“Aw — what’s the harm?” Bob de- 
manded. “Old Sprangle Paw doesn’t 
want it very badly, or she would have 
taken better care of it.” 

“She may want it a lot worse than 
she pretends,” warned Zeb. Which was 
all he would say. And the other two, 
exultant with the day’s luck, carried the 
cub with them. All three had a big job 

257 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


getting the slain bear to camp, having to 
rig a pole and slinging the game between 
them, two carrying at a time. All the way 
down the trail the cub squalled. And it 
kept squalling till after dark, Bob having 
tied it securely to a small laurel-tree near 
the camp-fire. They tried to feed it, but 
the little captive refused every morsel 
offered. 

“Pore little fellow,’ ’ Zeb spoke sym- 
pathetically; “he wants nothin’ but his 
mammy. An’ if I’m not mistaken — ” 
Zeb didn’t finish what he had in mind. 
He shook his head again, and sauntered 
out into the void of darkness that had 
settled round the camp. After a cautious 
look, this way and that, he came back, 
saying nothing. Blankets were spread, 
and the three, having eaten a hearty meal 
of bear steak and flapjacks, and all dead 
tired, turned in, or rolled up, for the 
night. They might have gone at once to 
sleep, only for that squalling cub. The 
little captive whined and wailed till it 
was literally emptied of its last pitiful 
note. Then, exhausted, it curled up and 

258 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


fell into silence. Almost at once, the boys 
were asleep. 

Late in the night, Bob and Sam were 
aroused by these whines again. Also, they 
could hear the ponies snorting and stamp- 
ing, as if in terror. They raised up, and 
peered around blinkingly. The fire had 
died to a bed of glowing coals, and in its 
light they could see Zeb. He was sitting 
on his blankets, with the long-barreled 
rifle across his knees. The mountain 
youth’s gaze was fixed on the farther 
edge of the circle of light. In a moment, 
a great black shape loomed out of the 
darkness, and came within the circle of 
light made by the camp-fire. This black 
shape quickly took the form of a huge 
bear. 

“Old Sprangle Paw!” Zeb exclaimed 
in a low, tense voice, as he brought his 
rifle into position. 

Bob and Sam tossed off their blankets 
and reached for their rifles. But before 
they had the weapons in their grasp, 
Sprangle Paw had lumbered round till 
she was less than six yards from the 

259 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


laurel where the captive cub squalled and 
jerked at its rope. 

Zeb was a greater distance from the 
bear than either of his companions. Fear- 
ing they were in his way, he made no 
immediate attempt to fire. Sam, much 
excited, hurriedly raised his gun and pull- 
ed the trigger, taking no definite aim. He 
made a clean miss. But Old Sprangle Paw 
rose to her hind legs, snarling and furious. 
With open paw and snapping teeth, she 
came directly toward Sam. Before he 
could fire again, she swung a mighty fore 
paw and struck the weapon from his 
grasp, sending it flying into the dark. 
Both Sam and Bob then leaped back 
across the fire, certain that the enraged 
she-bear would follow. Zeb got to his 
feet, and jumped round to get range. 

But Old Sprangle Paw had other things 
in mind than that of creating trouble in 
the camp. She wanted that squalling cub. 
She lumbered back to the tree, snapped 
the small rope as easily as if it were but 
a cotton thread, and seized her little one 
by the scruff of the neck. Zeb might 
260 


OLD SPRANGLE PAW 


have fired — but he didn’t. He held his 
rifle leveled till the huge black form 
merged with the intenser blackness of the 
night. Then he turned round and kicked 
a strip of pitch bark on the fire, with the 
remark: “I’m sort o’ glad she got her cub. 
Mebbe she’ll take better care of the little 
critter now.” 

There was something in Zeb’s tone 
that brought a deeper understanding to 
the hearts of Bob and Sam. Anyhow, 
they had one bear — and they were satis- 
fied. 


261 


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